


Eyes Always Seeking

by Dead_Alias



Series: Like Real People Do [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, F/M, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Hand Jobs, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Kissing, M/M, Marking, Multi, Reunited and It Feels So Good, Rough Sex, Sharing a Bed, Vaginal Sex, thigh job
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_Alias/pseuds/Dead_Alias
Summary: Geralt frowns.“What is it?”“Pardon?” Jaskier looks around from setting the saddle atop Roach’s back, giving the Witcher a curious once over.“You-you’re upset.”“Well spotted,” comes the too-quick unguarded response. Geralt frowns further, brow furrowing. Jaskier places a hand on his hip, the other rubbing between his own brows and huffing out a breath. "Look..."---Geralt has to push through and make sense of all these feelings he has about the bard who has miraculously come back from the dead. Each chapter is a glimpse of what they deal with on the road again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Like Real People Do [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1712947
Comments: 32
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of my other work "Like Real People Do" and I highly suggest reading that first or this one won't make a lot of sense. There's a lot of history between the two that I'm trying to sort out and add into each chapter just to hurt my own feelings about how much they love each other.
> 
> Share in my suffering.  
> I'm my own editor so all mistakes are my own, oops.

He watched Jaskier about the rented room of the inn, drying his hair with careful purpose as he went. The sun was shining in through the dusty dingy window on the far wall overlooking the street where people were milling around. The market in the square a few streets over was already opened a few hours ago, the ruckus from it drifting into the room as background noise for most of the morning. “We need to get you clothes.” Geralt stated as he laced his trousers and pulled on his boots.

“Is there a problem with me just wearing yours?” He didn’t have to look at the other man to know he was smirking over at him from his spot at the small window. He chuckled lightly, cheeks rosy and shone teeth entirely too sharp to be normal. “Have you enough money? I’m not very heavy in coin right now I’m afraid.” He teased further. Geralt smiled to the floor as he tugged the laces taut and tied them quickly finishing up. “Of course, this is the place I would be brought to know my taste has become a bit dated, isn’t it? Tell me again how long it’s been.”

“Fifty years.” Geralt tilts his head to the side with a fond smile turning up the corners of his lips. He walks over with an extra set of clothes; some he thinks might be the closest to the bard’s size. “I may have a plan on getting you your things.” He took the time to roll the sleeves of his dark shirt up his arms.

“Please, for the love of Melitele, tell me it hasn’t gone away to my family, Geralt.” Jaskier pulls up the trousers that hang loose around his naked hips, so loose that as soon as Jaskier lets them go, they start slipping down his thighs. “Gods, Geralt, how am I supposed to walk around in these if I can’t rightly keep them on? Give me the belt to your armor.” Geralt stared at him for a beat. “Go on, fetch it. I doubt highly that there will be a monster running through the thick of Oxenfurt in broad daylight. As soon as I have trousers that wont drop to my ankles, you’ll have it back.” He grinned at Jaskier as he did as he was bid. Once Jaskier fastened it and took the shirt in hand, he paused. Geralt bristled at the relative silence of the room. “You kept this?” It’s a whisper of a question, one that isn’t answered. He turns back to see Jaskier still looking down at the white linen shirt with its light blue embroidery round the cuffs and the collar. It used to be one of Jaskier’s. It had stopped smelling like him forever ago, but he supposed that didn’t quite matter when the real thing was in front of him again.

It was just another little material item Geralt has kept to sooth the ache, he hadn’t planned on keeping it for even this long, but every time he had tried to leave it behind here in Oxenfurt, he could never bring himself to do it. Other than the imperceptibly small bottle of Jaskier’s favorite perfume, his only other trinket from the time before was the silver ring Jaskier used to wear that Geralt had given him when they traded vows in Kaer Morhen one winter just before the dawning war. He noticed Jaskier looking at it constantly last night when they were brought back, only to not be able to wear it now. After wiping away a few of the tears that glowed in the moonlight, he’s absolutely sure the man would wear it only for it to burn off his own finger just to say he could again.

This was getting to Geralt more than he cared to deal with right now. He had tried to get a few hours of meditation in very early this morning due to that he (and Jaskier for that matter) hadn’t slept at all last night.

“Alright, tell me this marvelous plan of yours to get my belongings back. How is it they’re still here anyway?” Jaskier has his own sleeves and the bottoms of the borrowed trousers rolled as if he’s just been walking across the shore. It’s a good look on him.

“The Academy. They’ve had a few things awhile now.” Geralt grabs his bag that has his coin purse in it to bring with, sure they’ll need the extra storage if Jaskier gets his way at all. “They adored you, do you not remember?” Jaskier gives a knowing smirk at the comment.

“As I remember, they adored you equally.” Jaskier points his finger at Geralt and walks over, feet planting on the hardwood delicately, just a soft pad from the flat of his foot was heard. Geralt scales his body and Jaskier’s grin turns into something different when their eyes meet. “I also remember…” He steps forward until he’s in reaching distance of the larger man. “When you would steal me away from their adoration to trade it for your own.” The excited blue eyes turn sly, though the brightness doesn’t diminish. Geralt can feel himself take a deep breath, eyes half lidded as he watches a single clawed finger trace across the expanse of his chest, tingling the skin around it like ice spreading across a shallow lake from the first breath of winter. The sharp of Jaskier’s nail taps against the silver ring held on the chain of his medallion. He stares at it longingly just as he did last night in the darkness.

“Don’t.” He breathes out. Geralt catches Jaskier’s hands at his chest and pulls them down to his sides. It’s not been a full day that Jaskier has been back in his life and he’s already losing grip on reality, on the emptiness he had to get used to, the hole suddenly filled again to overflowing. “Let’s go.” He turns to leave the room as Jaskier stands there a moment longer before following silently.

It’s not until later that Geralt can really feel his head spinning at the memories that constantly assault his vision and take up the energy of his focus. Walking the halls of The Academy with Jaskier in tow was probably a horrible decision on his part. Every corner they turned, a moment in time flashed: a soft kiss in the alcove of the stairwell, walking down the corridor, helping carry instruments, books, and scrolls of parchment while their shoulders and arms brush, the tree (which had grown much taller and more beautiful) in the middle of the courtyard they used to lie under in between classes in the spring. When they got to Jaskier’s old office which was now half used for storage, half to keep his spirit within the walls, Geralt forced himself to stand outside the stone archway of the door. Jaskier glanced around as if he were looking through a gallery of paintings and ancient artifacts, not his own belongings.

The longer he looks at the younger man, the more he seems like he’s just a ghost rummaging through all the other ghosts in the room, the ghosts of memories, of items that were too special to Jaskier before to get rid of. He felt that the man before him should be gently tucked away into the large trunk he’s now going through with the rest of his belongings and locked away to stay a memory.

“I didn’t realize…” Geralt watches him turn objects over in his hands one by one.

“Would you like to be alone?”

Jaskier turns his head, hands braced on the edge of the trunk with clothing and other finery spread in his lap and being organized inside the chest. The torchlight from the wall flickers in his glowing eyes and Geralt feels trapped in the moment again. His hands clench into fists under his triceps, arms crossed against his chest that heaves with an inhale, nostrils flaring. “No. Please don’t leave me. I’ll only be a moment longer.”

Jaskier finally drops his eyes back to the trunk, freeing Geralt. His insides burn but the medallion isn’t active on his chest. There’s no magic being pushed his way and yet he feels like he’s captive under a spell any time Jaskier makes eye contact with him.

Careful hands fold the bulk of the usable clothing into a neat stack next to him. He discovers a small but bulging purse in a fine porcelain jar. When he opens it, he finds all the jewelry he used to wear and adorn around his office. Jaskier upends the bag into his hand only to shuffle it around then yank his hand back suddenly, jewelry clattering into the bottom of the trunk with sharp tings. Geralt straightens but Jaskier flaps his hand like the air swinging past it will numb the slight burning pain. “I suppose I had more silver than I initially thought.” He mumbles more to himself. He nudges around the jewelry until he finds ones he can touch and wear, slipping them on one by one. After a while he finally stands and begins to change out of Geralt’s trousers now that he has a different change of clothes that will fit. That done, he goes to Geralt and hands him the stack of clothes to place in the bag he had brought with. “Thank you.”

Geralt nods and ushers them back off the campus and towards the marketplace to get a few more provisions for the road now that there would be two of them again. Right? His shoulders tense at the thought, knuckles turning white in fists at his sides. Surely this wasn’t going to last, he had been put under some spell from yesterday in the wood. “Geralt?” His heart skips, chest growing tight for a second before looking to his side at Jaskier. “Are you alright?” Jaskier resituates the strap of his lute case across his shoulder.

He doesn’t know how to answer that. Jaskier nods solemnly it seems, takes a deep breath, then slots his fingers between Geralt’s at his side, the bard squeezing his hand as they walk the streets of Oxenfurt. He doesn’t clamp his fingers down around the nimbler fingers in his own like he used to. They feel infinitely more fragile than he remembers, like grabbing a fist of the ocean to bring to the shore only for the remnants to dissipate from his palm. And like water through his fingers, Jaskier takes his hand back, keeping to himself, face turned away as he watches passers-by on the street instead. Geralt’s throat tightens, mouth going dry.

They eventually find booths where Jaskier can get new boots, a bag to travel with, and other small items Jaskier pushed towards Geralt with shining eyes and greedy hands. “I’ve already gone through your bags at the inn and can’t possibly understand why you don’t have this for yourself. It’s like I’ve taught you nothing.” He would say and Geralt traded coin to add to their growing stash until Geralt took him by the upper arm and grumbled he was spending all their coin. He just looked confused until a bright smile graced his lips. “Careful who you’re talking to, Geralt. We’re back in my city now. I’ll double all the coin we’ve spent today; don’t you worry.”

True to his word, Jaskier flitted through the crowd with his lute at his back, unfastening it and taking it out to place the empty case at his feet. He stood atop a few stacked crates next to a parked wagon in the middle of Hierarch Square. Geralt stood back, arms crossed his chest, brow raised at what in the hell his bard was going to get himself into now. It wasn’t past his usual antics, for sure, but this public of a display was certainly… different. It was completely unlike the parties and masquerades and even what the small but packed taverns had to offer. He watched skinny pale fingers tune the lute in their able and skilled hands quickly.

The bard cleared his throat and began singing, catching the attention of those who had already seen him climb over the busy crowd. The energy exuding from Jaskier was unlike anything he’s seen in a long time, and even then, he’s not sure he remembers it in the height of the other man’s career. The way the notes reverberate against the buildings, words dripping out of his mouth as smooth as silk and sweet as honey, the way his fingers dance across the frets and strings of his instrument could be plucked from the divine muses themselves. Though the sun was starting to set over the rooves, it seemed to cling overtop the shingles to listen to Jaskier’s set itself, prolonging the coming night.

The medallion at his chest hums softly but steadily as he surveys the scene before him. The light slowly setting bursts across the square and halos Jaskier’s head in the remainder of the day before finally sweeping the horizon. The audience is just as rapt as he is, applauding, singing along to the songs they know, and paying attention eerily quiet as they listen otherwise. Even from this far away, Jaskier finds Geralt within the crowd, blue eyes glowing lightly in the fading, cooling daylight.

When he’s done, he thanks the crowd and walks through with his coin purse open for the folks to drop their pieces in, clinking it on the top of the full pile. He saunters back to Geralt looking like the cat that got the cream as he tosses the closed purse to him and pats him on the shoulder as he passes, “Come on, Witcher, let’s have a drink.” Geralt grunts, following the man back to the inn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter is done! Thank you so much for reading.
> 
> Kudos and Comments always dearly welcomed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short character study. It's sad. Geralt, please talk to your bard.

Everyday he wakes up, he takes stock of what’s around him and continuously can’t fathom how he isn’t still asleep. A mop of dark hair curls against his chest, tickling the exposed skin. Heat rolls off the body besides him, fuzzy and content if a little sweaty from where their bodies stick together. His arm splayed to the side has the weight of Jaskier’s shoulders and neck nuzzled into it, the prickling feeling in his fingers irritating him but not enough to move the still sleeping man. The bard is breathing out against his shoulder, little puffs of air consistent and light. His muscle twitches under the attention. He takes a deep breath, growling out.

Geralt huffs out the breath and turns to the bard once more. His face is pleasantly slack, brows with naught a worry to them, mouth open, lips chapped from the dryness of night, drool clung to just the side of his mouth pressed to Geralt’s breast. The sharp nails at his sternum curl close to his medallion slung across his chest, subconsciously gravitated towards the magic and the silver ring still held there. In the early hours he still has to be sleeping, he allows his mind to wander, thinking of the man.

His eyes rake over the once love of his life-though that doesn’t sound right. Why can’t he _still_ be the love of his life? He died, yes. He came back. Was it the same Jaskier? He’s not so sure. This conversation with himself loops in his head any minute he gives attention to it too long. It’s only been a week of traveling with Jaskier again, as if they just met up again on the road in their more youthful days-well, at least Jaskier’s more youthful days. The emptiness that haunted Geralt for the past fifty years gone just like that.

That’s not right either.

The emptiness had left an invisible scar that relocated along his body; sometimes it was slashed across his hand, stiffened tendons and muscle not being able to hold his love closer, tighter. Sometimes it was burned and ugly on his neck where he missed the sweet kisses placed to his nape as Jaskier had washed his hair. Sometimes it was carved, pink and tender along his face, his amber eyes dull and faded from the lack of adoration both given and received. But mostly, it was a throbbing hollowness in his chest as if he were gutted and sewn back with nothing left inside.

Geralt’s free hand hovered over Jaskier’s wrist and lightly sets his nails to his skin, trailing it up and down the younger man’s arm, watching the goosebumps rise in its wake. The hand curled at his chest tightens, Jaskier murmuring in his sleep then sighing. Geralt turns his head into his hair and breathes deeply, scenting the man for all he was, past the smell of the soap he uses, the remnants of the perfume and oils, taking in the core of him. The robust oak after rain, the smoky quality of the sage, and the lingering sweetness of vanilla honey that settled at the back of his throat warmly. His eyes close trying to save this to his memory better than all the other times he desperately tried to keep hold of it.

_He’ll vanish right from your grasp._

Geralt shoots his eyes open, suddenly frantic. The thought has his heart pounding louder in his chest, surprised that it hasn’t woken the bard up yet. His breathing is coming faster, he has to get a grip on himself. It’s when he growls out lowly that Jaskier’s eyes flutter open tiredly and he brings a hand to his face, trying to rub the sleep away. He stretches and yawns in Geralt’s grasp until he feels the ragged way Geralt’s chest is heaving against his cheek. He sits up on his elbow immediately, looking down at the Witcher. “Geralt? What’s wrong? Speak to me, is something happening?” His eyes flick all over the larger man, to his medallion to see if it’s acting up, to his wide golden eyes, to his mouth, to his chest still heaving like he can’t get enough air in his lungs.

Geralt almost throws himself from the small bed, sitting at the edge of the foot of it. Jaskier moves across the bedding like he’s an incoming wave, grasping far and wide. His fingertips touching out to Geralt’s bare shoulder makes the Witcher flinch something awful, Jaskier taking his hand back immediately. The simple touch stops his racing thoughts and shatters them like fallen glass. Jaskier is back in his space, warm dry hands scaling either side of his shoulder blades before tangling one in his hair and the other strapping along his collarbones. His chin finds the crook of Geralt’s neck and nuzzles into it from behind. “Please talk to me.” Jaskier breathes against his skin. Geralt doesn’t respond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it gets better in the next chapter. The tension will be resolved.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt tries to finally voice his worry to Jaskier.

Geralt frowns.

“What is it?”

“Pardon?” Jaskier looks around from setting the saddle atop Roach’s back, giving the Witcher a curious once over.

“You-you’re upset.”

“Well spotted,” comes the too-quick unguarded response. Geralt frowns further, brow furrowing. Jaskier places a hand on his hip, the other rubbing between his own brows and huffing out a breath. “Look, Geralt,” the bard walks and steps over the logs splayed around their camp. “I’ve an idea about why you’re being so…” He gestured generally to Geralt’s persons. “Well, you. How you used to be anyway-silent brooding type. Witcher who doesn’t know what emotions are enough to have them. Uhg, toss it.” Jaskier snips, fussing about, mumbling more to himself, but knows Geralt can hear every word he says anyway. There’s not much use in denying the super hearing. He rummages around his pack, distractedly busying himself before turning towards Geralt again. “Simply, Geralt, I’m put off by that look on your face.” The Witcher straightens, growling low. The crease between his brows deepens. “Yes, that one. You’ve been giving me that look so hard I can feel it in my sleep. It’s been three weeks already. You’ve not said one word to me about anything before-. Well, before.” Even Jaskier can’t say it.

Before he was dug up from the ground over top his _own grave_.

Geralt exhales from his nose, jaw squared. “You’ve not touched me the same…” Jaskier whispers, looking almost fearful he’s said something that would actually upset him, scared of the implication behind the actions taken (or not taken in this case). He’s only seen it a few times across the span of their lives, two of the most notable that come crashing into the forefront of his mind being the first time Jaskier told Geralt he loved him as something more than a friendly companionship while sat across the fire from each other, fiddling with his hands relentlessly. The other being the mountaintop. The wind was loud on the ledge of the high valley in the mountains, whipping about his head and tossing his hair, but his own anger and the beating of his blood suddenly pounding in his ears deafened him more than anything else. That uneasy-no, heartbroken look before Geralt had turned his back on Jaskier. _That’s not fair…_ It seems like he’s unburied more than the body of his lover, but all their past as well, all the memories.

“I can tell.” He continues quietly, bringing Geralt back. His shoulders tense as he stands there across the camp but can hear the bard like he were breathing in his ear. “Don’t you dare say otherwise. It’s different, it is.”

He opens his mouth, pauses, pushes out an aggravated breath before, “Yes.”

“Why?” Jaskier is looking at him with such troubled eyes, one might think he’s in physical pain. Knowing the way the bard lived with his heart out in the open, he very well could be.

“You were-” He stops himself, not being able to say it again. There was a point that he got to where he gritted through telling people that _the love of his life had died_ , only if they were to ask. He never expanded upon it more than ‘he died peacefully in Oxenfurt at the end of his days.’ It had gotten easier to say, to reconcile, but it never eased the emptiness of traveling alone again. “I’m terrified.” He said instead, boldly honest. Finally.

“Of me?” He heard Jaskier’s breath catch, only hearing it because he could not meet the other’s eyes.

He shook his head, taking the trembling anxious energy in his body and running with it before he shuts down. “No, not _of_ you. For you. You know why Witchers aren’t bid to grow attachments. I did and I lost you before. I’m-”

“You won’t lose me again.” Jaskier interrupted, his voice so much closer now. Geralt jolted his head up and Jaskier was stood in front of him. The way the man moved was so silent Geralt was still trying to get used to it, to track him down if he wasn’t looking directly at him.

“How do you know?” It came out sharp and hissed. Jaskier flinched like it had bitten him. Geralt slumps his shoulders, willing himself to relax in Jaskier’s presence for both their sake.

“I don’t.” His voice was soft again. “Though with your profession, I don’t think _I’m_ the one to worry about.” It was a joke, trying to make light of the rest of the conversation. It did little to comfort Geralt. “I can’t rightly explain what’s happened or what will come to pass.” Jaskier scratched the back of his neck before stepping forwards into Geralt’s space. He held out his hands, palms up. Geralt looked down at them; the pale peach of his skin, the blue of his veins showing through, the meat of his palms pulsing with blood, with life as he waited. He set his larger, rougher calloused ones on top and Jaskier immediately took them, squeezing. “I myself am counting every day as a blessing, what luck I get to be by your side again. The world has so many mysteries to it, let us just count this as a good one.”

There were plenty of unexplainable things in this world, Jaskier was right about that; the monsters he hunted, the mages and sorcerers he’s encountered, the magic he himself wielded. Despite all of that, he’s never been lucky. He’s never believed in fate even when his life seemed so ruled by it with the destiny of his Law of Surprise and raising that child as his own when they finally joined, the War, the inevitable intertwining of Yennefer’s path to his. And now this. He says as much, “Hardly am I ever so lucky, Jaskier. It’s never been a friend of mine.”

“And yet, here we are.” Blue eyes that shone too bright caught his fierce golden stare, taming it gentle. Jaskier’s pulse drummed under Geralt’s fingers he had placed against the sensitive inside of his wrist. “I’m not asking for it now.” Jaskier took off the metal band he wore around his thumb and hovered it over Geralt’s pointer finger. “I just wish for you to give me the days I was not there for you so that you no longer have to bear this alone.” Geralt’s medallion pulsed against his chest at the magic in the air, the way it swirled around his head while Jaskier spoke. He should say something about the magics fae possessed in questions, in gifts, in contracts…

Instead, he nods and pushes his finger forward into Jaskier’s grasp as the bard smiles tenderly and slips the band onto his own finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, you should have "the fae talk" with your husband, really.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt continues to open up. Jaskier hears the story about the most recent Roach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Technically minor "temporary" character death? How do you explain that about a horse who has the same name of all the other horses before her? Roach is actually just one continuous horse.

They’re walking along the road some days later, Jaskier strumming his lute as he gazes up at the sky like he’s picking the words he sings from the clouds. Geralt watches him pleasantly, eyes roaming over the rolling hills and fields of the landscape around them. A pleasant thrum fills the hillside as the sun beams down brightly, the otherwise agonizing heat cut off by the breeze sweeping through. The sun seemed to spill across Jaskier like sprinkling rain, the light catching across his fancy mint doublet with its gold threaded accents and shining against his soft hair, right now a few shades lighter. He rode atop Roach a few paces behind.

When Jaskier turned back and shuffled over to Roach to pat the side of her neck and pet down her muscular shoulder, he spoke to her. “You’re a beautiful thing indeed, your coat is positively glowing. Once we get to town, I’m going to see to it that you’re properly groomed.”

Geralt smirks, “You’re sweet on her.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?” Jaskier immediately replies. “She’s done nothing but put up with you for years. Has she always been so well tempered? I can’t imagine the training.” Jaskier seemed to ask in an inflection that meant he wasn’t going to get a response.

He spoke up surprising them both, “She was easy. She learned well and quickly.” Jaskier beamed up at him, eyes alight with something close to excitement, but far fonder than that alone. He returned to Roach, running his hand down through her black mane and lightly scratching her side as they walked, easy smile on his lips. “She was a wild mare when I found her in the valley of the Blue Mountains en-route to Kaer Morhen for the winter. She took to learning with the other horses with difficulty at first, a stubborn thing.”

Jaskier smirks. “Quite fitting pair, you two.”

Geralt huffs but continues on, “After the winter, she had to replace my last. You remember her.” This will be the third mare the bard has seen him with thus far. The Roach he had met initially when they started traveling together all those years ago had died while the bard was still traveling with him. A darkness passes over his own face recalling the screams, the arrows, the clashing of swords… He had almost died that night as well. That was a day Jaskier knew all too well, though. It wasn’t worth speaking of now. Jaskier looks over his shoulder and nods, face fallen from the smile, now just paying attention to everything he was saying. There was a question in his eyes. “She died being cared for by another. Her days were kind to her, so I was told. She was a good horse. Old in her years.

“We’ve now been together a decade, isn’t that right, Roach?” He ran his fingers through the shoulder of her mane for a moment before gripping her reigns in both hands once more.

Geralt glanced sideways at Jaskier, cradling his lute in his arms, picking the strings at the neck absentmindedly. He hums deep from his throat and looks forward on the road. “Tell me more?” The question waltzes on the air, no louder than the thud of Roach’s constant hooves. “Please?” There was such an innocent curiosity in the younger’s glinting eyes his chest felt empty in the way of cleaning the dead weeds and brown ends of the brush of winter to make room for spring buds. And so, he talked, answering the simple questions Jaskier asked for few details in his stories. He talked till his throat felt hoarse, a crack and rumble like that of a strong fire on the edges of his voice. But the more he spoke, the lighter he felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't played the games nor read the books, but I've done a fair amount of research on the number of Roaches that Geralt has had. It seems to be anywhere from about 3-100. Had to research a lot about horses, too, and it's all strange to know.
> 
> I've planted that Geralt has had 3 Roaches since meeting Jaskier. The original (from the show), the next who was given to a farmer to die of old age in the time after Jaskier initially passed, and this one.
> 
> What do you think of one immortal Roach?
> 
> Kudos and Comments highly appreciated and thanked.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer mulls something over in her head before speaking, “You want to know if it’s genuinely Jaskier. You would know him better than anyone, and he to you. Do you feel it’s not?”
> 
> “I do, but…” He hums out, hands gripping his knees tightly for a brief second. “I had to be sure. I didn’t want to get too close again. Not after the first time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just let Yennefer and Jaskier be best friends!
> 
> Note the explicit rating! If you don't want to read that bit, stop at the ** and you'll still get all the story. 
> 
> I'm my own editor so this could be wildly bad?? Also, I don't know anything about Yennefer's magic/chaos and it shows.

It was an accident that they ran into Yennefer. They had just gotten into the bordering towns of Temeria on a contract to get rid of some drowners in the swampland around the river. There had been further talk of a wraith closer towards Cintran borders that they were ultimately heading down to.

Geralt was just placing Roach into the humble stable alongside the inn, grabbing up the bags across her haunches when he hears Jaskier call his name, too high a pitch to be comfortable. He darts out, ready to draw his sword at a moment’s notice but stops dead in his tracks. Yennefer's vibrant purple eyes meet his over Jaskier's shoulder with the most incredulous expression he's ever seen on her, he thinks. "Geralt..."

"Yennefer." He regards her, easing closer and standing astride the both of them, though he turns his shoulder in front of Jaskier, sheltering him in a way. He wasn't sure what kind of reaction the sorceress would have to finding out the bard was alive again.

"Care to explain to me what I'm looking at?" she turns her head towards him though her body is still rigid and in too much of an offensive stance to ease his own.

"Hey-" Jaskier starts, an affronted tone to his voice. Geralt raises a hand back at him, silencing him with the gesture.

"Yen, I need you to stand down." he says calmly, searching her eyes to figure out what her next move might be. "We can explain everything, but not here." He glances around at the few townsfolk walking past, giving them uneasy stares feeling the tension vibrating through the air around them.

"Bring your horse." She says definitively and turns on her heel. The Witcher and the bard glance at each other before grabbing Roach and following along behind the sorceress. None of them speak for the time they're traveling through the small town to the outskirts on the other side. They come upon a rundown looking stone cottage that was hidden enough away in the hills and trees that if Yennefer wasn't leading them, he's sure they would have passed right by it. She nods to a small but solidly standing covered stable just behind the side of the cottage to bring Roach to. She pierces her eyes at Jaskier and beckons him inside. He huffs past his frown but obeys. When Geralt joins them, he's not surprised Yennefer has made it so the cottage opens to a several story house. Down here there's a roaring hearth backlighting a spacious sitting area in the front room. On the far wall are plenty of windows not a part of the architecture outside and a staircase up to the next level most likely with more rooms than the house can logically fit. Further through a door on the wall of the fireplace is a kitchen he can see a large wooden table which has plenty of herbs, jars, and mortars across.

Yennefer grabs three glasses and a bottle of red wine through there and comes back out motioning coldly to the available chairs and couches. He sees Jaskier lounge onto the fur draped couch, lute case and bag set against the side arm. Geralt takes the armchair adjacent to it. The sorceress offers a glass to Jaskier and pours the wine when he takes it with an uneasy thank you. Geralt grabs the glass offered but just rests the bottom on the armrest while he holds it. He notices Jaskier doesn't touch his glass until Yennefer has poured herself one and drinks first.

She notices it too.

"You suspect I poisoned it?" She chuckles lightly, it's dry and throaty, the humor doesn’t reach her eyes.

"I wouldn't put it past you. Too many times have I drank potions of yours deemed to innocently be an offered drink between friends." Jaskier smiles down at his cup, but still doesn't drink it. Geralt is tense across from Yennefer, sure she can see that too.

"Look, Yen-"

"The time for pleasantries is gone. What is he?" Jaskier snaps his eyes up to her, bristling at the bluntness of her question. Her brows knit together as they look at each other a moment longer, her expression somehow transforming into something more perplexed, worried.

"Yennefer, I'm sitting right in front of you, don't talk as if I'm not here." Jaskier barks but there's no bite behind his words. "Neither of us can explain how it is I'm here again, truthfully. Geralt found me outside Oxenfurt." Yennefer looks to him now.

He sighs. "I was visiting him, like you knew me to do as usual. There was a fairy ring around his grave that I didn't see until it was too late. I..." He investigates the fire and squares his jaw. "I disturbed his grave. I dug him up from the ground like I was some rampant wild beast. It wasn't until the spell was broken that I saw it was him.” He rumbles out, the day playing out before his eyes again, the sunlight casting down onto ivory skin, his own hands dirt stained, the music pulsing through the forest, the stream…

Yennefer bolts up from her seat and rounds on Jaskier. "Show your true self now," she demands, though her voice is calm, it has a biting edge to it, the potential of a threat still apparent.

Jaskier studies her for a moment as Geralt shoves himself from his chair and once again plants himself between the two. "Are you frightened of me?" Geralt hears the soft voice behind him ask and it startled him but not as much as seeing the swirling emotion in Yennefer's eyes just ahead. Her face is dark from the fire casting shadows against her back, but the cold light from overcast skies pushing in what little light it can makes her usually warm toned skin frigid. "Are you going to kill me?"

"That's not going to happen." Geralt growls out, never looking away from Yennefer.

"Show yourself!" Yennefer shouts at Jaskier again paying no mind to Geralt despite the rough hand on her shoulder and force keeping her back.

"Jaskier." At the call of his name, the bard holds his hands up slowly in surrender, standing.

"Alright." Jaskier mutters as he takes a step forward, shedding the Glamor he had in place all the while. Yennefer hesitates, the strain Geralt has been pressing against is gone now. He studies her taking in Jaskier's form with both horror and amazement. "You've got what you wanted, are you convinced now?" Geralt turns his head over his shoulder to see Jaskier, arms spread at his sides in display, head slightly bowed, eyes uneasy still but bright and focused. They take in the extended pointed ears, the sharp teeth, the glittering of displaced light that cascades behind his back fluttering as he moves, the normally long fingers lengthened by sharp claws tinging his fingers a light blue down into his palm. His eyes are glowing something fierce with the added fireplace dancing across his features.

Yennefer's mouth is parted slightly before she closes it, shaking her head. "You... it really is you? How did this happen?" Her voice is softer and warmer than it has been up to this point.

"As I said, we're not sure how it is I've become this. Perhaps my family lineage is more complicated than I originally thought." Jaskier shrugs one shoulder and skitters his eyes along the floor. Yennefer steps forward still staring at him, Geralt's grip tightening until her hands gentle at his elbow. He raises a brow her way and turns with her to watch the interaction.

Yennefer looks up at Jaskier grabbing his eyes, a manicured hand going to the side of the bard's face before bringing him into a hug. He stills for a beat before wrapping his arms back around her. "We've missed you, Jas." The embrace is short but they both look at ease again, the tension drained from the room. Geralt finally feels comfortable enough to take back his seat. Yennefer's fingers graze along the swoop of Jaskier's bangs and then pinches his cheek before moving away. "You look younger than me again, what a fortune you've stumbled upon. Dreadful I can’t tease you anymore." Jaskier boasts a genuine laugh and smiles into his shoulder as he sits down.

Geralt and Jaskier (mostly Jaskier) catch her up on what has happened, what they've been up to and the whole thing feels... nostalgic. The three of them fit right back into that companionship they've had for decades. The late-night chatting Yennefer and Jaskier got into later in his life when he became less and less intimidated by the sorceress (though through plenty of conversations with Geralt, he would still admit “That minx of a woman absolutely terrifies me, but isn’t that the thrill of it?” and he would laugh every time), and had become more and more fond friends. They had a way of bickering and teasing that married well together. When Jaskier had taken to being a professor in Oxenfurt, it had become a frequent getting together, the three of them. Yennefer would drop in anytime she saw fit, whether it was business or pleasure, she always ended the night in one of Jaskier’s office chairs sharing a bottle. He sat back and watched them talk like no time had passed, no heartache, no longing, no sorrow, just a days' time and a wine glass that needed refilling.

"Tell me dear, were you honestly offering up your residence for the night or was this a plan to lure me in for a hunt?" Yennefer smacks his knee and waves her hand shooing his accusation.

"Yes, yes. You're welcome to stay. The bedrooms are upstairs as well as the bath. Make yourselves comfortable." She stands and collects the glasses to bring to the kitchen to wash for later. Geralt sets his head back against the chair, brow raising as he catches Jaskier watching him while she's away for the moment. Jaskier’s eyes look like the ocean in moonlight, waves freely giving and taking across the rocks, merciless out at sea. His lips split into a wide easy too-sharp smile when Geralt can feel his own nostrils flare at scenting the air. His attention is taken from the bard when he hears Yennefer come back. She’s floating lazily about the room behind Geralt, but he tilts his head up to see her perched behind his armchair.

Jaskier slides from the couch, grabbing up his bag and lute. He stops at Geralt’s side, fingers grazing over his wrist, the touch sparking fire up his arm in a tingle. The same hand grazes along Geralt’s jaw, first the backs of his fingers tickling one side, then the soft of his pads scratching along the stubble, his thumb brushing over his lips as if it were a delicate flower petal. Geralt leans into the touch, kissing the meat of his palm before the hand falls to his shoulder. He can hear the shuffle of the two behind him, Yennefer lowly whispering, “It’s good to see you again,” and kissing his cheek.

“Will you follow?” He directs to Geralt.

“I’m going to sit for a moment longer. I will be up soon.” Jaskier’s hand trails lightly till it slips to his side as he walks away, casting his partings for the night over his shoulder as he ascends the stairs.

Geralt has a pleasant smile crossing his lips, content in listening to the snapping and popping of the dying fire, the embers faintly glowing.

“Am I to put more wood on the fire?” Yennefer rounds the chair, hand atop the back wing and raises a brow at him, eyes glinting, knowing. Instead, he gets up himself and lumbers over to the hearth to throw more kindling and a rather small log to tend the fire. They shouldn’t be kept too long, best not to waste a full one that would burn for hours more. The swirling orange and yellow flames match the heat coursing through his veins lately. There’s an itch just under his skin that he can’t scratch, a sore in his mouth that irritates the more it’s tongued. It’s been close to two months now that he and Jaskier have been back traveling together, living side by side. “Geralt, what is you want to ask me?”

“Do you feel it’s him?”

He can feel the sparks of the fire at his hands, against his forearms in what should hurt, pull his skin away from the rough sear of heat. Yennefer settles onto the couch, her legs pulled up to her side as the deep purple of her dress spills across her body and off the edge of the couch like midnight dripping from the sky. Geralt can feel her considering her answer carefully, knowing the sharpness of her tongue needs to be in check. “At first, I thought it was a doppler, though it was unlikely. There was something different about him, but I’m not sure that it wasn’t just my own thoughts warring with me. He’s just as authentically Jaskier as I’ve come to know. He has all the memories of his time before?”

“Yes.”

“If he really is of the Fae, he has control of ancient magic, Geralt.” He gives out a heavy sigh, nodding his head. “Have you seen it, yet?” He nods again. Yennefer goes silent for a moment, mulling something over in her head before speaking, “You want to know if it’s genuinely Jaskier. You would know him better than anyone, and he to you. Do you feel it’s not?”

Geralt finally gets up from the front of the fire and goes to her, sitting next to her, elbows at his knees, hands clasped together worrying at the sword calloused skin. “I still feel like I’m not living in this reality. I can’t tell if what is around me is true or not. He’s so much of Jaskier it scares me.” This isn’t quite a new conversation between the two of them. He had voiced his few fears over the years to Yennefer in confidence, a reoccurring one being the fact that Jaskier was so painfully _mortal_. “I so desperately want him to be here, Yen, but that can’t really be him, can it?” He feels her hands come to his shoulder and stroke through the ends of his hair as he talks, doing the smallest amount to ease his discomfort as she listens. Geralt sighs out and runs his hands over his face, falling from exhaustion.

“Lie down.” She tugs his hair gently until he’s laid his head onto her lap, hulking shoulders digging into the comfortable cushions below, hands rested at his stomach and legs propped and hanging off the arm. Her fingers soothe circles into his temples. “Close your eyes.”

“Yen, you know this doesn-”

“Close your eyes.” She says more sternly, finely arched brow raised but eyes calm. He does with a groan and exhales loudly from his nose before settling. “Don’t open them again until I say.” She continues to rub his temples with her thumbs before smoothing them across his brow and around his eyes. He breathes deeply, letting the tension leave his body. She starts whispering into the closed space above his head, but he can’t seem to hear her. Memories fly past his eyelids as if being searched and categorized while she continues to mumble. Her fingers move down to his chest, moving the medallion just to the side as her hands stop over his heart. He suddenly feels a burning sensation inside his chest, building slow and deliberate until his body feels like it’s sweating it out, his mind dizzy and melting. His hands grip the edge of the couch and the other goes to her arm still planted firmly at his chest. A rush of wind deafens his ears. Something feels like its carving against his eye sockets, searing hot metal slicing through until he feels pierced with it. His eyes are still closed. His voice feels hoarse, not sure if he’s screaming or growling his pain, he can’t hear himself if he is. Yennefer’s fingers sink into his chest like claws, but he feels like he’s been kicked by a horse.

Then it’s over. Her hands are back at his head soothing down his face and then rubbing into the sore points of his neck. “You can open your eyes now.” Amber meet dark orchid. She’s smiling contentedly down at him and runs a few fingers through the loose hair around his face.

“What did you do?”

“What you wanted.” A flicker of panic passes his face, not knowing of what that might mean, but she laughs at him. “True Sight. If there wasn’t pain, you wouldn’t have believed me, you brute. Your mind hasn’t gone anywhere, Geralt. You’re not wrong to think the way you have been. If not for seeing it myself I would agree, but…” His eyes flutter when her fingers get too close, tickling the lashes. “That’s him. I don’t know how, its magic that dates past what I’ve learned in my time. Though, I can consult my ward on more particulars if you like.” Geralt’s eyes close again, shaking his head and finally rising from her lap to sit up. “I’m surprised you don’t hold more faith in that medallion.” Her eyes flick to it before meeting his eye.

“I do, but…” He hums out, hands gripping his knees tightly for a brief second. “I had to be sure. I didn’t want to get too close again. Not after the first time.”

“He suspects you, you know.” Geralt grunts his acknowledgment. Of course he knows. He can feel it every day. The bard acts so much like himself, it’s almost become an act at times just in hopes that it brings Geralt out of this forced distancing. He’s been so afraid to get too close in the outcome it really has been an illusion brought about by his own mind. He should have known better that no one, not even the best doppler, could have dramatized Jaskier’s character the way the bard does. “You’re a fool, Geralt, but a caring one. Go to him.” Geralt looks at her, the fondness in her deep alluring eyes is sad almost, but he knows that look well now. He grabs her hand in his and squeezes.

“Thank you, Yen.”

+++

Geralt quietly opens the door to his and Jaskier's shared room. It's relatively empty save for two chairs and a small table between them by a large window overlooking a tree line as if from much higher in a tower, the large bed with thick wool blankets overtop bedding sheets, and a short row of knobs on the wall closest to the door where Jaskier has already hung some of his belongings. His lute is set to one of the chairs by the window. Geralt shuffles over to place the bulk of his armor onto the empty one. He undresses quickly enough, trying to not draw the process out too long by continuing to disrupt the quiet of the room. Jaskier is turned away from him facing the far wall, shoulders rising and falling steadily. He appears to be asleep, but Geralt knows better than that.

He gets down to his small clothes and pads over to the bed, wrestling his shirt over his head and dropping it on the edge before lifting the blankets and sliding in next to the bard. He doesn't move to face Geralt like he usually does.

Jaskier had heard the conversation...

Geralt turns to him instead, sat up on one elbow and reaching out to place a large hand to the side of his ribs above the blankets. "Jaskier..."

"Why didn't you say?"

"I tried." That was true enough. The talk they had at their camp in the forest, he had tried to say how terrified he was, how completely crazy he felt he was becoming before tonight. "Jaskier, I'm sorry for pushing you away. It's true, I was...frightened of what it would do." The word has never felt right being expressed on his tongue.

"What would it do?" Jaskier's shoulder twitches but he still doesn't turn around.

"Destroy me." If he was being honest, he was going to dive into the black waters without knowing how far the depths went. All in. Jaskier lifts his head and slowly peers over his shoulder to finally look at Geralt. "I wasn't allowing myself to feel it again."

"I told you I'm not going anywhere." Jaskier spins onto his other side, the blankets bunching up under the movement and acting as if they're pulling him closer. And then hands are doing it instead. He lets himself be guided into the embrace, face level with the others. "Why d'you not trust me?"

"It's not you I don't trust."

This seems to relieve Jaskier, a deep sigh releasing from his chest, shoulders relaxing from the tense position at his jaw. His eyes kept picking up any source of light that fell into the room to glow brightly at Geralt, matching the forged burning gold of his own. Jaskier's thumb caresses his lips for the second time that night like he wants to commit the feeling to his memory, watching the reaction he gets from the other man. Geralt shoos it away with his own fingers wrapped lightly around his wrist and brings him into a warm kiss instead. Jaskier's arm goes slack as he lets a high sigh fall from his mouth into Geralt's.

Something clicks in his brain then, telling him how much of a fool he's most certainly been denying himself Jaskier's touch, his body, his love. And he agrees. What he should have been doing these last two months was making up for all the lost time he's had without the bard at his side and savoring the new experiences they will undoubtedly get to have now. He can be an absolute idiot sometimes.**

Jaskier playfully bites at his bottom lip as they kiss leisurely in the dark, wrapped up in each other. Geralt growls out lowly, just a purr in his chest that vibrates against Jaskier. The bard hums along to it, biting his lip again, more purposefully this time till it slides from his teeth. He pairs this with slotting a thigh between Geralt's and arching his hip against his own crotch. His brows furrow and he snaps, pushing both Jaskier's shoulders down to the bed and fluidly rolling on top of him.

It's suddenly frantic, Jaskier's hands that had been petting his neck and into the nape of his hair is scoring lines down his back and readjusting the blankets on his hips before grabbing at his ass, pulling him closer. Geralt devours Jaskier's mouth with his own and it's less like he's in unknown dark waters and more like he's willfully drowning. When he feels the hands still at his ass grabbing at the rather thin piece of fabric between them, one of his own hands shoot down to help him rid the offending garment. Jaskier had decided to sleep nude as he usually did when they had a mattress and a room around them. When their bodies come together, skin sliding both smoothly and with so much friction his head spun, he couldn't help the desperate grunt he makes into the bard’s shoulder. Hot skin rubbing against each other has his fingers gripping tighter into the pillows as his arms bracket Jaskier's head.

The little soft moans and chirps he keeps making are music to Geralt’s ears. Their hips roll against each other in a learned rhythm that they slot back into perfectly. Geralt growls out above Jaskier when he feels claws at the sensitive part of his lower back. He flashes his eyes open again-how long had they been closed?-to sear into Jaskier's. The pupils are blown but the blue of his irises shine so bright he still feels like he's falling into them, caught under a spell. A grounding thought crashes to the forefront of his mind when he thinks about how he used to feel the same way about Jaskier even those years before. Especially like this. Gods, especially like this with the way his hair is tousled around, and his lips are darker and plumper, and there's a faint flush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. High pitched but still such masculine little _ah, ah, ahhs_ flutter around his ears and the drawn-out moan afterwards makes his spine tingle.

He feels like they're kissing within an inch of their lives, now that this has started. It has to inevitably avalanche down the slopes to settle, but all he can feel is weightless on the precipice. He's loathe to stop kissing Jaskier, but his hands are pulling the smaller lean body around like he's a rag doll and if that doesn't set a fire coursing through his veins at how willingly and obediently he follows. "Legs together." And Gods, hearing himself speak after such a short time (perhaps it's been longer, maybe hours though it feels like everything is happening so fast) and how wrecked he feels, is heady.

Jaskier pushes up from the mattress on his elbows, though his fingers grip and splay across the bedding. His rear is pressed right up against Geralt's cock and pushing back, rolling his hips as if he could slide in with no preparation or work. Geralt is losing his mind, his breathing coming fast and ragged, pulse running his body amok. Jaskier whines for the touch, head tilting back and to the side to find Geralt's mouth once more to take. He groans at the tang of fermented wine still faintly at the back of his mouth, savoring the taste and slide of their tongues together. The kiss is messy and uncoordinated, but it didn't matter when he could feel the strain of Jaskier's neck in the way he followed after Geralt's mouth.

He finally positions his hips lower to grind against first the cleft of Jaskier's ass, and then the dip between the backs of his thighs. Jaskier mewls below him. Geralt sinks between his thighs smoothly, the sweat off their skin enough to glide with toe-curling friction surrounding him when Jaskier tenses the muscles in his thighs and squeezes around Geralt. He groans with his head pressed between the bard's shoulder blades. He continues, Jaskier's inner thighs becoming slick from his precum. The younger man below him rocks back and angles his hips so that Geralt's cock catches and slides deliciously over his perineum and sack. He shoves his face into the bedding and trembles with the effort to keep on his knees like this so keyed up. "Geralt. Geralt, please touch me." He gasps out and it’s so pretty he can't think to do anything else.

His mouth works over the back of the bard's neck, canines skimming the flesh of the side of his neck before he bites down into the junction of neck and shoulder. Jaskier inhales sharply, muscles tensing around Geralt's cock again. He sucks the spot enthusiastically only to pull away seeing the dark mark he's made in its wake. He takes a second to lick a fat line across his palm before gripping it around Jaskier's cock that had been drooling against the bedding and he has half a mind to sit up ripping his body away from Jaskier's back. The younger man shivers at the exposure to the air of the room. He leans back just enough to grab his shirt and place it under Jaskier's hips. This was the first night they would be sleeping on a rather nice comfortable bed in two weeks. He didn't want to ruin that by having the sheets stick to their bodies or lay across a large wet spot while trying to sleep.

He can see Jaskier’s resolve slipping away from him. The more Geralt touches him, the louder and breathier he gets. The bard tries to suppress his noises into the mattress, at one point grabbing a pillow and moaning brokenly into it. Gods he was so sensitive, so reactive. Geralt mouths across his shoulder blades, biting the skin to make little pink marks that would surely fade before the morning. His hips continue their steady pace pushing into the tight space between Jaskier’s thighs and caging in his hips for more control. “Oh, blessed Gods above, fuck Geralt, please.” His head digs into the bed, his torso sucking in as much air as he can get only to let it out in strangled hums and startled yeses.

Geralt’s pace picks up matching the litany of expletives and noises his bard is making. The core of his stomach burns something terrible. It’s hot and heavy that only heats further through his body like a fever. He’s close now, growling low from the back of his throat out at the corner of Jaskier’s jaw. He can feel the way the body under him shivers. “Jaskier…” His fist around the others cock strokes in counter to his thrusts pinning the man’s body between hand and hips. One of Jaskier’s hands scramble to grab a fistful of white hair tightly to keep the Witcher over his back, at his neck. The bard turns his head to catch Geralt’s mouth even though it’s no more than sharing breath.

“Say it again.”

Geralt all but growls his name, squeezing at the base of Jaskier’s cock to feel it pulse and throb in his hand, the man coming with a shout across the dark fabric of Geralt’s shirt below him. His body is trembling as Geralt holds him up, prolonging his orgasm and taking his own pleasure. It’s not much later that he pumps through Jaskier’s thighs painting them prettily with a grunt and bite to the others’ shoulder. He leans back on his heels above the bard, sure his weight would suffocate him. Even welcomed, the smaller man would protest eventually. This way, he can position them to do a quick clean before getting too tired to do anything about it. The way Jaskier’s legs fall open to him when he’s laid on his back, his body loose and relaxed, has his cock giving another interested twitch. He uses his shirt again to wipe away the cum splattered against his skin, giving himself a quick once over before finally tossing it onto the floor at the side of the bed.

He drapes over Jaskier which has the man humming contentedly from the warmth and weight. They turn to their sides, legs slotting together before pressing so that there’s hardly any space between them. Jaskier’s head sits at the edge of his collarbone at his chest, arms tucked into himself trapped at Geralt’s torso. He’s already slipping into unconsciousness when Geralt pulls the blankets up around them and wrapping an arm around him. He feels little wet marks pressed to his skin as Jaskier kisses against his chest lazily. Each kiss delivered spreading further apart in time until they stop altogether, and he can instead feel the even deep breaths. He has the best sleep in a long time, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, some pay off.  
> I love these boys' love.  
> I love writing for it.
> 
> I also love Yennefer's relationship with the boys.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was safe within the embrace of Jaskier’s arms around him, holding him close so he wasn’t adrift. He decided he would think about the metaphor of that at a later time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a peek into some domesticity, and some gratuitous smut. Like a lot of it. Look, I just wanted to write for Yennefer some more because I love her.

He wakes up to an empty bed.

The side of the mattress which housed Jaskier’s warm body has gone cold, Geralt’s hand skims across the bedclothes and has a sinking feeling in his gut. Despite everything that had happened last night, his conversation and honesty towards Yennefer, the added confession to Jaskier, and the hurried but no less amazing coupling between them, the cold bed besides him screams loudly. As he turns to place his feet onto the floor, he sees it: his soiled shirt on the floor where he had thrown and left it. His head tips up to follow the grey early morning light from the window looking out over a landscape that isn’t here and to the table and chairs. Set against one of the chairs is Jaskier’s lute case and his pack is still slung over the knobs near the door. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized was stuck in his chest. He goes to pull his trousers on and start downstairs.

The other windows about the larger-on-the-inside cottage shone different mornings across The Continent. Some, red skies from a harsh and vibrant rising sun, others more subtly subdued from clouds and an incoming rain. When he pads barefoot to the main floor, the sun is shining brightly through the trees, breaching the stone and glass. A pleasant breeze flows through the open front door making his hair prickle with the contrast of his sleep-warm skin.

He hears low voices, tinkering of stone and metal pans, and a hearty smell of cooking food from the kitchen. He follows the bright but low chuckle into the threshold, rough dry hand scaling the side of the wooden frame.

There, Jaskier is sat across the large tall wood table from Yennefer standing on the other side. The man is pressed into the light of the wide-open back door through the kitchen, the air sparkling around him in white and yellow glints off the rustling leaves and the water still hanging in the air from the storm last night. Geralt takes in the way the white of his undershirt shines and illuminates, the thin material making it possible to catch the shadow of the curve of his back, the angle of his broad shoulders under the draped fabric. He’s beautiful. Jaskier’s hands busy themselves pulling herbs from their stocks and putting them into small stoneware bowls in front of the sorceress. He’s talking lowly, telling more stories and recounting memories of when she first allowed him to help her concoct her potions. He teases her then, making her break out into a toothy smile. There’s a strand of twisted wildflowers tucked behind her ear.

He wants to soak this moment into his bloodstream, have it spread through his veins in that slow delayed way his abnormal heartbeat does, but at least then he would get to savor it longer. As he thinks this, Jaskier turns to him, a heartbreakingly soft smile on his face with too-bright eyes. His heart catches. He can’t help the flustered feeling when Jaskier smiles wider, excitement reaching into his eyes and bursting for all to see. “Nothing but trouble to follow after such a smile like that. Naughty Witcher, watching us innocents like prey,” Jaskier goads. Yennefer lifts her eyes to the bard then gives a knowing glance to Geralt.

“Hardly anything innocent about you lot.” He huffs around a small smirk and finally enters to take the stool next to Jaskier. His hand immediately goes to the small of his back and rubs across the dimples he has there. He feels the man shiver and press into the touch, a glint in his eye, a smile he can see from the side of his face.

“You two haven’t changed. Still can’t keep to yourselves for longer than a breath.” Yennefer chides, though there’s more mirth in it than scold.

“Tell me Witcher, how long is it that you can hold your breath?” Jaskier turns to him, a playful smile still pulling at his lips. His hand goes out to Geralt’s jaw and strokes the stubbled skin. His hands smell of fresh herbs and lavender. Geralt tries not to melt into the soft touch, eyes downcast as if pondering then grunts. Jaskier pipes back up, “I think you’ve rather been jealous of my attentions to him. You know all you need to do is ask, Yennefer.” Geralt actually laughs at the look she shoots him; one that screams “ _I dare you_ ” but underlined with the same want and curiosity that has always been there for the bard. She’s seen the way he loves and loves fully. Yennefer had confessed her jealousy before, of the thorough unyielding loyalty and devotion the bard has shown and the reciprocated care and attention the Witcher gave right back. Though, at the time, it was phrased more in a biting back-handed way.

Jaskier moves from his chair and Geralt misses his touch already. He circles the table and simply, easily, practiced from years, wraps his arms around Yennefer from behind. There’s no bristle, no fight, no insecurity as there once was a century ago. Jaskier sets his chin to her shoulder, encompassing her, watching her hands continue to work the mortar with all its finely ground ingredients. She allows him to linger.

When she finally pats his arms still loosely circled around her belly to move across the kitchen, she has the makings of half a laurel wreath atop her head, twined in her dark hair. It has lilacs wrapping about the leaves, the pastel flowers softening her demeanor. He’s not sure if she knows; if she does, she doesn’t let it be known. Or perhaps she doesn’t care for the flowers. He catches her fingers linger against the soft petals when she tucks her hair behind an ear. Quite the opposite then. Jaskier had that effect on people.

“What will you do today?” Yennefer starts in conversation as she stirs the pot over the fire. The wafting fumes from the food smelled delicious and reminded him they haven’t had anything to eat since yesterday morning.

“There’s a contract in town for disposing a nest of drowners I had meant to inquire of yesterday.” He rumbles out leaning against the table on one arm now.

“Not to worry, Geralt, I’ll make myself scarce. No need to grunt it out this time. I’d like to stay with the Witch if she’ll have me today.” Both turn to Jaskier who has taken to absentmindedly finely crushing some of the herbs in one of the bowls between his fingers. Leave it to Jaskier to keep up surprises. “You’ll be back before long anyhow; you’ve fought at least a thousand of them in the time I’ve seen.” He says dismissively and Geralt continues to stare at him pointedly. He raises a brow. Jaskier scoffs and dramatically swings his head, rolling his eyes for emphasis. “Gods above, alright then. I only meant to proposition this most lovely,” the bards eyes turn adoringly towards Yennefer, hand at his breast as he waxes poetic about her, “breathtaking specimen of a-”

“Jaskier.” Geralt and Yennefer say in one.

“Reconnect. Consummate. Make love. Couple. Lie with her and dedicate time to the throws of pleasure. Give our bodies to each other in the heat of the moment and the coldness of the night. In simple terms: fuck, Geralt.” Geralt tilts his head, eyes alight with humor. “We’ll be back to the road by tomorrow no doubt. Despite your intricate, intertwined, absolutely mystical and captivating affair with Destiny, who’s to say when we’ll see each other again. As I no longer take up residence in Oxenfurt, there’s surely no way to keep in contact as regularly as we once did. We’ve only just seen each other now.” The bard had a point. That’s annoying. Though, it does give him a full day of the man staying out of trouble-and rather into Yennefer’s chambers. Heat pools in his stomach at the thought. “So,” Jaskier sets his hands to the table gently, swaying back and forwards into the edge as he gazes down at the ingredients as if talking to them instead. “If she’ll have me, I’ll stay here.”

“And what will you do if I shall not have you?” Yennefer is grinning over her shoulder, perfectly arched brows raised in mocking distaste and contempt.

Geralt squinted his eyes at them, a curious expression lining his face though he’s sure he looks like he’s in slight pain according to what Jaskier has told him in the past.

“I’ll woefully compose of the lost love of the beauty I once had in my fingers and how it so slipped from my grasp like the sands of time.” It was only the moment when Yennefer hummed in consideration that he remembered what this looked like. They were _flirting_. Jaskier continued, “If it pleased that beauty once mine, I would _beg_ upon my knees just to kiss the very dirt where she stepped. I’d be in prayer for _years_ just thanking the Gods for letting me gaze upon her.” Yennefer snickered as she removed the pot from the fire and brought it to the table.

“Fetch the bowls for me, Bard.” Jaskier huffed at her dismissal and swung about the kitchen collecting the items to eat the soup with. He uncovered a loaf of bread and cheese also. They sat in relative quiet as they ate, though Jaskier kept making little pleased noises at Yennefer’s cooking. Geralt shook his head and chuckled into his bowl. He missed this domesticity they had in the later half of Jaskier’s life before.

It wasn’t too much longer after they finished eating that Geralt had gotten all his hunting gear together, walking towards the still-open front door in full armor. Jaskier looks up from where he’s in the front room, journal atop his crossed legs and quill in hand as he scribbles something onto the page.

“Are you sure you won’t follow?” Geralt gives him a pointed disbelieving look. Jaskier makes a face, shooing his hand Geralt’s way. Yennefer walks up behind Jaskier, hair now pulled up into a messy bun with the flowers placed throughout it in a beautiful fashion. The form fitted short dress she was in this morning is gone, instead she wears a long flowing sheer black dress that has gold and silver stars speckled across the bottom hem and roped lacing across the bodice in the same colors. It was an intricate and detailed design that billowed around her like a soft flame. She looked divine, like a goddess that walked the world. He won’t lie that his own body has missed hers. Especially now that he’s walking away, again. He watches Jaskier do a double take and then just blatantly stare up at her, composition gone from his hand. His eyes follow the bard’s tongue that darts out wetting his lips. Geralt’s eyes go darker, too.

“He won’t be in your way; I promise you that. He’ll be in capable hands, Geralt.” She flashes a dangerous smirk his way and he sees the way Jaskier shivers, preens under the hand she has buried in the back of his hair.

“Very capable hands, my lady,” Jaskier all but sighs out.

Geralt clears his throat and hums out a farewell before retrieving Roach and leaving off to the town. He doesn’t get rid of the tightness in his stomach until he asks about the location of the downer nest, contract in his pocket to collect the reward for later.

***

It was no wonder why the townspeople were so put off and scared of the nest. It had been bigger than he had been told, though he supposes he should have known better. These are the perfect climate and lands for them to thrive and torment surrounding humans. He had to take more potions than he would have strictly liked to use. They were numerous and angry, half-starved creatures fighting for all they were worth. He was slashed across the thigh by one, almost bitten in the calf by another, grabbed relentlessly by his wild hair, kicked and shoved to a better vantage point for them only to emit piercing screams from the Sign of Igni he propelled towards them before slashing his way through their hesitant scared bodies. By the end of it, he was (as usual) covered in blood, guts, mud, and most likely much worse. It had stormed yesterday, the marshland sticky and enveloping up to his knees in some places. Another reason the fight had been made worse. The unsteady ground around him made it extremely difficult to get footing to strike. Hail, he still managed to come out victorious.

He had hobbled onto Roach, several heads tied together and slung from behind him to worry about getting the coin for tomorrow. The extra boost from his potions was still coursing through his veins; his eyes stung enhancing everything so that his own movements felt too fast now that he was out of danger, the base of his skull pounded with his slowing but heavy pulse, his muscles ached from the wet and the cold of the marsh. He needed to relax before being seen by anyone in town lest they run in fear, banishing him before earning his coin.

The sun had gone down over the trees and the far away mountains to the West. He brought Roach into the small stable once again, disposed of the heads in a safe spot that wouldn’t smell too terribly the next morning, and went to the front door of the cottage. He tried to center himself, tried to take deeper breaths to calm all the energy coursing through him, but to no avail. The most he could do now was try to be as quietly civil as possible entering the house. He fails terribly with that too.

The strong scent of the herbs from this morning burn his nostrils now that they’ve been properly mixed into something he recognizes but can’t name right now. It’s not a danger to him right now, so he need not know exactly what it is. He growls low as he passes across the front room where he had left Yennefer and Jaskier. It’s dark and quiet down here. He needs to find them, find Jaskier, he always knows how to help him when he’s stuck in this state until it’s out of his system. Always knows how to calm his racing heart enough to focus on something, always knows how to spend all this extra energy. When he stalks through the house without finding anyone, he growls out louder, more agitated. He decides to go take a bath, drawing the water to scorch his flesh, sear it off, force his muscles to relax, _please_.

He’s just made it in at his waist in the large marble pool when he hears the other two enter the kitchen below. His focus shifts back and forth from the burning of his cuts, feeling as though they’ve been rubbed with coarse salt, and the two voices drifting up the stairs and through the wood and stone. He hears a stuttered silence, then “Bring potions, he’s been hurt.” Jaskier. Jaskier was back. His head snaps behind him to the door, eyes flitting around the expanse of the house outside the door he’s left open.

Light footsteps on the stairs. A displacing and swish of air as they comb through the hall and its rooms. Yennefer almost passes right by- he hadn’t lit any candles, so the room was dark- but the heat spilling, suffocating, pushing out of the bath gives her pause and she turns to see his pitch-black stare. Jaskier is there in a flash and pushing past her in a second, sliding to his knees and coming to Geralt’s side. The Witcher snarls out his breath, but the bard doesn’t even flinch. He takes the man’s jaw in his lute and quill calloused hands gently, peering directly into his skittering eyes. “Geralt, I’m here. Where are you hurt?” He lowers his head, takes a heaving rough breath, still sounding like a huffing boar, and forces himself to sit along the edge of the bath again. Jaskier’s eyes scan over his body, trying to pick out the worst of his injuries, knowing full well most of them will heal just given time.

In the meantime, Yennefer has lit the candles surrounding the bath with a magic hand, painting the room in a warm yellow-orange glow, slowly amplifying the heat. “Will he be alright?” The sorceress asks quietly, though it’s not too concerned.

“Yes,” Jaskier sighs out, fingers running along the scratches in his thigh that makes the muscles jump and twitch. “What have you gotten yourself into?” he asks, a whisper of a rhetorical question. He steadies Geralt for a few more moments as he gives the Witcher a potion to speed his healing and to numb some of the pain. Geralt slams it back and tosses the vial aside, aiming for his pile of clothes so it doesn’t shatter from the rough use. “Down, into the water.” He pushes at Geralt’s shoulders, willing him to slip back into the steaming bath. Geralt groans low, this time from letting the tension out of his body incrementally now that Jaskier is here and taking care of the things he doesn’t have the focus for. “Now all we have to do is expend that pent up energy.” Jaskier says with a smile, sliding his hands across themselves like he’s dusting them off. Then he begins to undress.

“You can’t be serious.” Yennefer scoffs from where she’s leaned against a stone wall. He can just hear the rolling of her eyes in the tone. Geralt looks over to her, black eyes watching her back. “You’ve just been complaining you needed a rest, and now you’re rearing to go again?” That’s… not what he was expecting her to say.

“Yes, well. It’s part of the job. I do so take my occupation seriously, Yennefer. Always eager to give a helping hand, I suppose.” Jaskier breathes out like he’s been put out, a lilting sort of dramatic woe. Geralt can’t help but chortle. “If you would like me to keep giving my gracious services to you, Witcher, you’d do well to hush.” There’s no truth nor real threat to it though. Jaskier pushes the back of his exposed shoulder with his foot, then steps into the bath. He takes a sharp inhale and then lets it out shakily as he drops his Glamour. When the poet descends the two stairs of the marble in the water and into Geralt’s lap, the Witcher grabs at him readily. He’s needy. _Hungry_.

He’s devouring Jaskier’s mouth, his neck, his hairy chest as soon as he has his hands secured on his hips. Geralt’s already hard and straining against his stomach. He grabs handfuls of the smaller man’s ass as he nips and bites into his collarbone making him yelp then moan. Hands are going through his hair, first trying to soothe, then pulling harshly to bring his mouth off Jaskier’s neck to instead bite his lips. The other man growls into the kiss himself, matching Geralt’s intensity without a problem. He scores his nails down Geralt’s chest in sharp lines that has Geralt gasping and pulling away. Feeling this hesitance, Jaskier looks at the speckled red rows down his torso, blood brought to the surface, just breaking the skin. Geralt feels a swell of energy, the air is spicy and almost as sharp as Jaskier’s nails, or his own swords. It’s dark and burns down his throat when he takes a deep breath in. He needs more of that. He surges forward again, his hands now more possessive, gripping at Jaskier’s body like his hands would brand into his bones.

The man in his lap moved his own hands, one to Geralt’s hip, the other to the side of his neck, though his thumb there flicked out to stroke -then scrape- against his throat. The nimble fingers began to squeeze just slightly, feeling his thudding pulse against his hand. He could feel it worm under his palm; it sent a shiver down his spine. “You’re more than welcome to join, darling. Though, might want to sit this first one out. Water’s much too hot and he’s much too bestial to be kind. Besides, you prepared me quite thoroughly earlier today.” Geralt practically roared in his chest at the admission.

His black stare with its dark blue veins wrinkling around his eyes caught on Yennefer who had moved to the front of the bath behind Jaskier’s shoulder, skimming her hand over the top of the water in swirling patterns as she watched them. She was still in the flowing dress, though her hair was in a different style with braids scaling the sides of her scalp back into another messy bun that had the long braids wrapped up in it. There were no flowers now, but a sprig of lavender was tucked into one side. Her eyes were lined with black making the deep dark orchid more prominent. She looked hazy on the other side of the bath, the candles and the steam putting a mystic air around her as she lounged on her flank and palm.

“Though he can positively be a brat, he was good for me, you should know.” Geralt desperately missed this. What had they done without him here? The furrow of his brow must let them know his thoughts.

“Oh, the things that woman can do with her pretty little hands.” Jaskier hums. “Don’t let all her work be for naught.” Geralt didn’t need any more coaxing. He growls out, taking Jaskier’s mouth for his own, hands positioning him above and closer in his lap. The tip of his cock rubs sweetly against the bard’s cheeks before being pushed into place. He’s still slick with remnants of oil. He holds Jaskier’s hips with a bruising grip, rough hands demanding but contained as best he could. He sits Jaskier down onto his prick, sinking down perhaps a little too fast, but the bard only gives a slight wince before his mouth falls open. His legs rearrange so that his toes are brushing the insides of Geralt’s thighs sending sparks straight to his groin each time he feels the scratch of a sharp nail along his skin. Jaskier’s hands have gone to his shoulders, a clear invitation to let him have his way with his body, only bracing for it.

The more he scents the man’s skin, the more he finds out about the day with Yennefer. He can taste the pleasure as if he were there with them, the salt on his skin from his sweat and her damp palms in the moment. The aroma of dried herbs dirtied his flesh, enhancing where it is her hands had been on him, directing him, holding him down. He’s sure he would find the same traces on her skin as well. The oak of his hands that near his jaw a giveaway of when he was outside just before this, sliding against the trunk of the trees surrounding the cottage, the freshness of outside lingering his body as they walked together. The heat of his breath panted out in the space between their lips telling him of the dedicated time he spent at the witch’s cunt, wringing orgasm after orgasm with just his mouth on her and the subtlety of her own breath enveloped like a present at the back of his tongue for the long moments they spent kissing throughout their time. Light spots speckle across his neck, raised but healing scratch marks litter his torso that has become flushed with the heat of the water and the scrutiny of his black eyes.

He does try to reign in the shocks of his tense muscles, the hardness of his thighs straining to contain just initially so Jaskier can get used to his cock again. It’s been so long that he’s felt the man like this. He brings the bard close again, laps at his neck, the corner of his jaw, the dip of his collarbone, purring against him as his hips rock shallow but quick under the water. Jaskier is making these little moans, equally strained noises in the back of his throat that have Geralt’s blood boiling hotter in the already scalding water.

When his eyes rise over Jaskier’s shoulder once more, he lingers across the attentive body across the water. It’s as when they first met, the watchful gaze of the sorceress searching out over the orgy of bodies before her, the flickering candlelight casting all different hues on her caramel skin. He can smell the wisps of her arousal in the air underneath the immediacy of the bard’s in front of him. The mingling scents swarm his senses and he feels lightheaded with it. He doesn’t realize that it’s driving him up into the smaller lean man in his lap roughly until nails are sunk into the meat of his shoulders. He thought they were drops of water, perhaps condensation from the thick air sliding down his flesh but it’s his own sluggish blood. Jaskier’s sharp teeth add to the sudden overwhelming sensation of smelling the iron in the room.

He grabs at the bard, switching their positions with the high tone of the water plinking and swaying around them. Jaskier is pinned to the side of the bath, shoulders digging into the slick marble as he manhandles his thighs over the crooks of his arms and smushes the man close. Jaskier chokes on a breath, garbling a moan as his head tips back exposing his neck. Geralt claims the space as he fucks into the man intensely faster, the water hardly slowing him down. At this angle he’s sure he’s sliding along the other’s prostate with how Jaskier tightens against his cock, howling his pleasure like he’s been shot. He licks along the spot where his collarbones jut together where his scent is strongest and laves over it, canines skimming the skin threatening to puncture. This only spurs Jaskier on further, emitting a babble of words in a higher octave than his usual voice.

Geralt growls with pride in being able to turn his lover into a writhing mess of a man, stumbling over words that usually come to his quick-witted sharp tongue naturally. He doesn’t remember the last time they were like this, not fulling joined in this way. The heated quick way they came together last night is still fresh in his mind, still on his skin being that he hadn’t bathed yet. He can’t say he’s not just as effected as the bard is; his usual blunt speech has fallen and crumbled around him, not being able to utter more than grunts and groans against the skin he keeps an avid attention on. The pleasure coursing through his body is jumping to new heights with every smooth slick slide into the man’s hole still clenching around him deliciously.

Jaskier curses colorfully, hands scrambling between them to reach towards his straining cock. Geralt bites roughly at the hollow of the man’s throat, growling like a primal beast, warning him to retreat. “Fuck, Geralt. Please, please. I can’t-”

“You will. Only by me.”

“’m not- I’ve already cum… so much, please. I need-” He begs and clings to Geralt, hands flying to his hair, his neck, his shoulders, anything he can brace on and hold. Geralt just smirks into his throat as he edges the man closer and closer never giving him enough friction for release. Jaskier cries out, glistening tears threatening to fall from the corners of his wet lashes. He brings Geralt into a sloppy uncoordinated kiss, a sharing of quickened breath more than anything, tongues rolling together with no direction other than to touch. The Witcher angles his hips to spear the man’s prostate as he pushes his cock into the tight hole spasming around him. “Geralt!” His thighs tense and clamp around his arms as Jaskier shakes in his grasp.

Jaskier’s lips split from biting into them so sharply, the clutch of teeth on the sensitive skin unrelenting while the bard breathes fully, raggedly through his nose instead. He’s wound so tight that Geralt has to put more effort forth fucking into him now. A hand smacks down to his bicep and curls around the muscle tensely as Jaskier finally cums, vibrating in his arms and choking on the moan caught in his throat, strangled whimpers and whines drowning in the back of his mouth. The tips of his pointed ears all down to his spread thighs is flushed bright pink from the effort and heat engulfing them. His abdomen trembles, tense muscles shocked every so often while Geralt continues to thrust. He nuzzles into the man’s neck and breathes him in deep.

His own orgasm is just within his grasp, so he chases it. He thrusts powerfully though erratic into the other until a few moments later, he slams home and stills as he cums deep. He rocks his hips just to ride the aftershocks, the water lapping at his back as he moves with the waves they’ve created in the water. Jaskier is boneless in his arms as they catch their breaths. The bard’s head lolled back against the side of the bath; his eyes closed but lashes fluttering with activity, trying to open but not having enough energy. Geralt pants out at his chest where he dips into the water, then kisses up his sternum to the corner of his mouth so that they can still breathe. Jaskier finally seems to have regained his senses because he’s smiling like an idiot again. He opens one eye to peer up at Geralt.

“By all means, keep me speared on that giant cock of yours. I’ve been so melancholy without feeling it split me open. I can taste it if I focus hard enough,” he jests with a fond smile on his lips.

Geralt chokes on the apology he wants to say, so instead he finally eases out of Jaskier slowly as not to hurt him too terribly. He lowers his legs back into the water as well. Geralt can feel the tremble of his limbs under his palms, the shivers still raking through the other’s body in drawn-out over-sensitivity.

“How do you feel?” Geralt’s eyes shoot up to the bard’s face again to the softly spoken question.

“I’m… better.”

“Your eyes are just about back to normal.” A slightly shaky hand comes up to his face and traces around his eyes where the veins have receded back and given way to his usual pale skin. “I give my permission to hand you over now. I’m afraid I’m spent.” Jaskier laughs lightly and flops his arm into the water, sprawled out lazily.

“Pickings left from a feast, how kind of you, Bard.” Said bard chuckles again, closing his eyes. Geralt turns to sit next to Jaskier in the bath and look across to Yennefer who has dipped her legs into the bath, still sat on the edge of the large marble tub. She has a rosy flush to her cheeks under vibrant dilated eyes that are piercing him right now. His cock gives a twitch. He’s still hard. “Come, Witcher.” She beckons him with a slender finger.

“I’m sure he will. The feast is aplenty, darling.” Jaskier voices next to him, devious smile now lighting his features. Geralt gives him an annoyed roll of his eyes before lifting and gliding over towards the sorceress.

Yennefer’s legs spread invitingly to house him between her knees, his wet hands scaling up her shins and circling the cap of her knee to rest his hands there. He gazes upon her: the steady rise and fall of her breast, the way her skin glows in the light, the curling of the baby hairs around her face and the nape of her neck, the sheen across her body from the humidity, her commanding presence that swirled around him with a gentle caress. He knew she was to be succumbed to, to fall prey at her feet and devoured. She gripped his jaw in a firm _capable_ hand, forcing him to meet her eye, though he doesn’t know where else he would rather be looking. He was in the thrall of her power now even as she let go of him. He keeps the eye contact as he descends closer towards her body. His fingers brush up her outer thighs bringing the edges of the sheer fabric of her dress with and bunching it up against his wrists. She hums, a small amused smile on her lips. The hum is echoed behind him lowly. He doesn’t dare look.

The fabric is loose enough that he can get his hands completely under the torso and pet over her sides, move up to her breasts to fondle them in his large palms. She’s not wearing anything beneath which makes it so he can immediately touch her. First with his nose, followed by the scratch of the stubble on his chin to graze along her innermost thigh and up across the short patch of hair on her mound. He loses the eye contact in favor of fluttering his lashes and closing his eyes as he inhales her smell. He can smell Jaskier’s saliva still clinging to her despite a perfunctory clean before they left the cottage. Geralt must ask for it, he’s learned. “May I?” He sees the way she shivers from his roughness of his voice. A hand goes into his still-dirty hair.

“You may.”

“Shall I tell him?”

“He’ll know.”

“Yes, but I know he likes hearing it as well.”

Geralt moves his hands to cradle her legs atop his shoulders so that he can spread her a little more to get to her core, mouth breathing over her cunt in hot puffs of air. He sets his tongue first to drag slowly over her clit for a few swipes, then lower to taste the tang of her lips and the wetness. Her breath catches slightly above him, but otherwise stays composed. He wants to devour her as soon as his lips touch her skin but knows better. She was to be given prolonged attentive concentration. So, he starts slow.

He licks into her slowly, savoring the feeling and taste, the heady scent of her arousal surrounding him fully, intoxicated by it. His tongue parts her lips and dips into her wetness over and over, curling the organ as though he could coax it out that way. The more he licks and works his jaw, he can hear the sloppy wet sounds he’s making and it drives him wild. And then he smells it. Jaskier’s spend inside of her. His eyes fly open and he groans into her pussy, sucking her lips into his mouth, between his teeth and swipes the flat of his tongue over her clit and flicks it again.

“I believe he knows now.” Yennefer sighs out, her fingers carding through his hair and scraping against his skull pleasantly. Her thighs tense on either side of his head. He circles the tip of his tongue around her clit then goes back to mouthing over her sex fully, stretching his jaw to encompass her. He slides his tongue over her again only to lap up her juices and suck, coming away with a tsk of noise. Her lips are plump and red, the insides of her thighs aren’t fairing any better from his scruff he’s irritating the skin with. He takes one breath and dives back between her legs to wring a soft moan from her.

A gentle hand traces up his back from behind jolting his skin, but not his focus. He feels the heat of the other man’s body against him, the hair from his chest sliding against his shoulders, mouth setting to his spine. “Yes, I believe you’re right.” Jaskier drawls from between his shoulders, the way his ‘r’s roll slightly sends a tingle down his spine. “Though, I’m not sure he knows exactly how I made even the icy witch melt beneath me. How my mouth wrung cry after cry from her most delectable lips. Her hands tangling deep and tearing out my locks while in most blessed ecstasy. How her body trembled as I finally gave to her my cock, sheathing it as a sword into her divine cunt.” Jaskier slithers a hand across his hip and circles his fingers about his cock, grasping it in hand _finally_ and languidly tugging him. “How I spent again and again until the witch was done with me, unleashing me from her mighty spell.”

“Jaskier.” It sounded like she wanted to scold him, but it came out of her mouth breathy and hitched. Geralt groaned and put his mouth to work more vigorously the more he heard from the bard. That he was stroking his cock under the water with the friction given by his hand, his mind was phasing in and out of what to focus on. He decided to dedicate the effort to his mouth and bringing Yennefer closer, scooping her hips into his arms and holding her cunt pressed into his face further. The sorceress gasps at his display of strength and Jaskier moans behind closed lips, squeezing the base of his shaft. Geralt growls against Yennefer’s core, breathing harshly through his nose as he refuses to leave the woman’s touch if even for a moment.

The bard removes his hand and swiftly moves around them. It’s not till fabric is no longer brushing against his arms and forehead that he knows he’s helped her out of her dress. It had started to slink into the edge of the water. Yennefer is laid out against the marble, her hips arching into Geralt’s mouth, rocking against him to direct his movements. He looks up the length of her body to see the poet sucking at her dark pebbled nipples, body draped across her side, still-shaking but firm arms holding him up above her. The bastard is mouthing her chest openly so that the Witcher can see how his tongue is moving along her skin, and he can only mimic the motions as his eyes narrow in on it. Yennefer punches out a moan and snaps her hands to Jaskier’s head to pull him up to kiss her. Geralt whines at the sight.

“Witcher.” He sucks roughly at her and then comes away with a slow but firm swirl of his tongue. The other two stare at him with blown eyes. He’s sure he looks a sight, but he can’t help but think the same of his two lovers.

Jaskier is already half-hard again, cock red and jutting at his hip. His skin is still flushed, though it’s now more noticeable that he’s not bent in on himself. Scratch marks and hickies litter his body though he’s sure they’ll fade by this time tomorrow. Unless he has any say about it, that is. The man’s eyes are wide and bright, the clear blue of his irises so unearthly that he can still spot them around the deep black of his pupil. Yennefer is debauched, her hair had been let down to sprawl around her like a halo and it drapes across her bare shoulders now. The braids are keeping the wildness at bay around her angular pretty face. Her eyes, too, are fierce and boring into him. He gives her one last thick lap to her clit making her jolt before rising to meet her.

She pounces, shoving Jaskier out of the way with a chuckle from the other man. He’s laid flat on his back, knees at the side of the bath and legs dipping into the water. She straddles his hips, his hands immediately helping to balance her in his lap as she controls him and pressed his cock to her cunt. She buries him inside her, the slide is slick from her wetness and the attention of his mouth. She grunts out above him and starts rolling her hips at her own frantic pace. Her clit grinds at his pelvis on every down stroke, just wanting to chase that friction. Geralt helps her rise and fall, though he only moves with her tempo, letting her take what she wants from him. She curls over him, then, her hair falling against and tickling his shoulders as she closes in to kiss him.

Its fast and filthy the way they nip and suck at each other’s mouths, a primal thing they’re swapping back and forth. The wet heat around him feels suffocating again in a completely different way than it had with Jaskier. His balls are drawing up, the tenseness in his belly is scrunching tighter. His dominant hand goes down from her hip to curl at her inner thigh, thumb reaching out to rub at her clit with more friction, holding it there for her to grind on. She pants above him, eyes squeezing shut, mouth hung open as he sees her running after her orgasm. When it hits her, her entire body spasms, legs coming in tight against his hips, hands clawing at the ground and into his side which makes him buck into her. She throws her head back and rides his cock for as long as she can. He takes that time to grip her hips and fuck up into her quickly, making her belt out a yell of pleasure before she pushes at his hips with a flat hand.

Geralt immediately lets her go and she dismounts him in a rush of air and a falling body next to him. She breathes heavily with eyes closed, slight tremors going through her. He smiles down at her, lifting a hand to tease at her nipple. It earns him a slap across his own chest, but he chuckles from it, leaving her be. He turns then to Jaskier.

The man is sat with one leg in the water, the other tucked under it as he fists over his cock watching them. “Insatiable thing, aren’t you?” Geralt rumbles to him, seemingly snapping him out of a trance with a high whine and a squeeze to the base of his cock. He shivers at the loss of motion, shoulders shaking at the violence of it.

“Geralt, you mustn’t tease me in this way. I’m much too fragile right now.”

He snorts a laugh and motions a hand to his own still erect cock. “I never mentioned of depriving you, little lark.” He hears the man’s breath hitch.

“Oh, blessed be.” Jaskier sits up at the edge of the tub with a knee, but takes to the water, sinking into it and moving between Geralt’s thighs much like he had done for Yennefer. His left hand goes to steady his shaft as he opens his mouth around the tip. His cheeks are flushed, lips bitten red, hair a mussed mess atop his head, and eyes glowing brightly even half lidded as they are. He looks drunk on the sensations. Geralt crosses an arm behind him to lift his head comfortably to watch the bard mouth at his cockhead. The other lays across his belly, though it’s soon burying in the man’s hair anyway. The bard moans, brows knit together as he sucks around the few inches he has in his mouth. The way his shoulder wobbles at Geralt’s inner thigh tells him Jaskier is stroking himself off. He moans deep in his chest from the show.

He feels the way Jaskier’s arousal spikes as he laps up more and more of Geralt’s cock, no doubt tasting Yennefer’s juices along his shaft and feeling it pulse against his tongue. The Witcher has been keyed up for too long, he won’t last much longer with the way Jaskier is taking his cock down as far as he can, slobbering across the flesh that can’t fit into his throat. The bard moves his free hand down to palm at his sack, rolling his balls against his palm openly, fingernails just barely whispering over the base of his shaft. Jaskier is licking up the saliva that’s dripped down the sides of him and he’s barely aware how loud his skull hits back against the marble when that attention is centered at the tip of his cock once more. The hand at his sack sinks lower to press a firm thumb pad against his perineum, massaging his prostate from the outside and he’s gone. He growls with teeth gritted and nostrils flared as he cums into Jaskier’s mouth, spilling all his spend behind those lips that milk him till he’s done. The bard moans as he works to swallow everything down, taking a deep breath when he’s lifted off. His head falls to the side of Geralt’s thigh, whimpering.

The Witcher sits up after a few breaths and peers down at the bard who looks pained, legs splayed on the first step underwater, hand still wrapped around his cock. Geralt soothes his hand through his hair then yanks it back for the other to look up at him. The pleading eyes make his touch go gentle again. “Work yourself over. Let me see your pleasure.” Jaskier’s brow furrows in concentration, though he never looks away from Geralt. So he never looks away from Jaskier. He can feel the chill of the marble behind him fan out against his lower back but the heat inside of him hasn’t released. He doesn’t think it ever will with the way Jaskier is staring at him like the bard’s entire life has been placed into his hands.

Geralt tightens his fingers in his hair but doesn’t pull. “Cum for me, Jaskier.” The other’s jaw drops on a strangled whine, brows coming together as his face scrunches in pleasure-pain, eyes fighting to stay open but fluttering as his hand flits over his cock. Geralt tugs his hair now, yanking him up making Jaskier yelp but straighten up on his knees to crash into a bruising kiss.

They kiss until they’re breathless.

Jaskier laughs brightly into the next one seemingly out of nowhere and Geralt pulls away, hands on either side of his face, Jaskier’s own circling his wrists gently. Jaskier’s eyes glance towards Yennefer who’s finally dipped into the water on the adjacent edge to them. “Still can’t keep to ourselves for longer than a breath.” Yennefer smiles as she drags a natural sponge across her arm, paying them no real mind but still listening. Jaskier looks back to Geralt with a soft expression that makes it feel like his heart is fluttering in his chest again.

They both sink into the water and join Yennefer in bathing, the three of them helping each other though they’re all completely capable of doing it themselves. The small intimacy of winding down warms them more than the water which is now closer to the temperature of the room than the steaming pool it was before. They talk quietly, their voices echoing off the marble pleasantly back to them. It narrows down to a world of just them.

When Jaskier is done cleaning and brushing through Yennefer’s hair, the black locks shining like silk in the dim light, he grabs Geralt and starts the same treatment for him, having him recline back against Jaskier’s naked body. He lies back against the slippery skin and has to reposition, bumping against Jaskier’s lap. The bard puts a hand to his hip underwater, stilling him. “Settle down, I don’t think I have another one in me tonight, Witcher. Perhaps tomorrow,” he teases about the accidental grinding. Geralt just rolls his eyes but Yennefer smiles, shaking her head minutely at them.

By the time Jaskier has conditioned his hair with the surely expensive soaps and oils in the bath, all the tension has left his body and eyes have shut. He just listens to the other two talk.

“Best get that one to bed.” Yennefer says softly.

Geralt wasn’t asleep. He soon would be if Jaskier kept up the way his fingers brushed across his skin in soft tingling patterns, tracing over old scars and the lines of his muscles. He was safe within the embrace of Jaskier’s arms around him, holding him close so he wasn’t adrift. He decided he would think about the metaphor of that at a later time. He was tired, now.

He could feel the tip of Jaskier’s nose pass along the edge of his hair before he hummed in answer. He’s not sure if it was because the man didn’t want to disrupt the quiet, or if he had so obviously picked up the habit from the Witcher himself. His heart gives another lurch.

Eventually, though Geralt is sure it hadn’t been that much longer after that, they all climbed out of the bath and dried off. They made their way through the upstairs hall nakedly retiring to Yennefer’s room and all climbing into the large bed. It would have been plenty of room for two people, and even with three, there was still the ease of mind from being rolled off the comfortable mattress. Jaskier was pushed into the middle between them. Though he gave them a questioning glance, he didn’t vocalize it for once, seeming to know why they were doing it. Geralt pulled the blankets and furs over them when Yennefer and Jaskier were settled into each other with limbs twined. Geralt slid up against Jaskier’s back, arm wrapping across his body enough to thread his fingers with Jaskier’s hand on Yennefer’s hip under the blankets. The bard hummed contentedly, squeezing his fingers and nuzzling back into Geralt only to pull Yennefer into him.

Geralt breathed the scent of his two lovers deeply, kissing the back of Jaskier’s neck before he was taken by sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm thinking there's going to be one more chapter after this for this particular story but I still have several other ideas written out already for this story that just needed to be told in a certain order.
> 
> As always, kudos are much appreciated and comments even more so. Thank you again for reading!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt holds his breath, trying not to make a move that would give him away. Jaskier sees right through him anyhow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to the regular tender feelings and sweet angsty conversation.
> 
> Changed my mind about how many chapters there are going to be since I can't seem to figure out how to write the end of this fic. I'll keep working at it. Have this for now.

Jaskier’s hands worked surely, the nimble fingers steadily threading the thin wiring through his skin as he grits his teeth around a bottle of a rancid spirit from the tavern downstairs. He didn't care to watch now that he didn't have to do this himself. Jaskier's hands were much better at this anyway; he was as gentle as he could be, efficient, always distracted Geralt through it with his pretty words. Not that he needed the distractions. He had no reservations if he were to need to do it himself, has a thousand and one times surely. But he knew better now that the bard would fuss over him, making snippy remarks all the while ( _“You’re making an absolute mess of yourself, no wonder it scars so terribly. How d’you expect to get at it from that angle exactly? Oh, plague it, let me do it for you...”_ ), before pushing his hands aside to do it himself.

"Will this just be another one added to your collection then, Witcher?"

Geralt pushed back the urge to flinch.

The needle grazed a little too close to a sensitive spot he had thought was once numbed by previous scar tissue. He clenched his jaw once more and gripped the edge of the tub with his able hand till it creaked.

"Sorry, love." He could feel the other's eyes on the side of his face before they went back to focus. "Remind me once more, how is it you feel about your scars?" It was such a laid-back conversational tone; he would have been offended if it weren't spoken so softly, so attentive to hear the answer.

"Just a part of the job."

Jaskier snorts, nodding. "Right, of course they are." He drawls as he lifts his chin and eyebrows, but his gaze is stuck on finishing his stitches on the wound. "But what if they weren't? Didn’t have to be anymore?"

Geralt did turn to him this time, eyes questioning, intense.

"I've been practicing, see-"

"No."

"Oi! Hold on!" Jaskier grabbed at his forearm to take it back when he instinctively went to pull it away from his grasp. The water sloshed for a moment before slowly rocking back to settle in the bath. Geralt growls in his throat, a stern look cemented on his face. "Keep still. Really, Geralt, one would think you're just a child throwing a tantrum. I'm not going to do anything unless you wish it."

Wish it. Wasn't that all? Dealing with Jaskier nowadays was... different. At least when it came to things like this, like with wishing and hoping.

He had always known Jaskier to be a word smith, a master of prose and poetry, crafting his words from the depths of his mind and the sharpness of his tongue. It wasn't any different now, but it was infinitely more charged. The magics the fae blood pumping through his veins gave him spoke just under his words like a second tongue in these instances.

"Hmm."

Jaskier sighs with a roll of his eyes. "I'm nearly done, just hold still a bit longer." Geralt took another awful swill of alcohol and grimaced. The drink hurt more than the deep gash at this point. He felt the heat of breath at his skin, the tug of wire, and heard the snip of teeth cutting it short to his skin. He looked as Jaskier inspected his work, running his fingers over the raised ragged skin sewn shut.

"I only meant to help."

"You do help. Jaskier..." Geralt turns to him now, his hands grabbing for the bard's still upon him. "To ask that would be taking advantage of you. I'm not going to do that. These are my scars to bear, you know that of my life." What kind of Witcher would he be without so many tangles with close calls and near-death experiences? The Path had given many things to him through the years, and scars were aplenty. Back in the early days that Jaskier and he had met, the bard had made songs about each of them he had received from vicious hunts (or equally vicious humans). Those ballads had stopped, save for a spare handful, a few years into their journeying when Jaskier had seen the frown that tugged his lips when he heard them. Jaskier had learned of him slowly through their time together. Learned the delicate intricacies of his life, his reactions, and his emotions that he had buried so far down he told himself he had forgotten what they were.

"I know some of them trouble you. I know you still lower your head when walking into taverns, so you don't have to catch the eyes looking at them. I know you _didn't choose_ the life you've led." He looks away even now as Jaskier points it out. There was a time he trembled under his companion’s scrutiny. Jaskier was the one that brought all his insecurities to the light and had talked them, wrangled them, kissed them away to the best of his ability. "I just want to help. Even if it still heals as a scar; I can heal the damage, the nerves and tissue. I want to help it-help you along." Jaskier wrings a washcloth in his fingers as he's sat in the stool next to the bath.

"I know you want to help." It was the least he could say, because he did know that. Jaskier was a deeply caring, giving, and capable individual. All Geralt felt he did was try to help. Why would he try to ask for, try to take more?

"You refuse to let me go with you on hunts anymore. I've not forgot my way around a sword, Geralt. I have power now, too."

"It's too dangerous," he cut in.

"Of course, it's dangerous! That's why I think I should be with you more! So idiotic things like this don't keep happening. If I was there, I wouldn't even have had to stitch you up this night. Or the other week." Geralt opened his mouth to protest again. They've been having this conversation more and more often. It reminds him of just before training Jaskier with his long swords. Suffice it to say, he was already quite good with daggers and rapiers due to the lightness and swift execution they brought for his leaner body type. He had just wanted to know Jaskier could take up his own swords if he were to have fallen and Jaskier had to get away, to fight. The bard would have been a good Witcher in another life. The thought makes him cringe. "What's changed since we hunted from before? You know how I am in battle; you saw. What's changed?"

"Everything!" Geralt roars out, the frustration finally coming to a head. He doesn't look at Jaskier besides him, he can't until he gets a hold of his shaking body. His skin vibrates, blood pumping fiercely through him.

"Right, well..." The bard fidgets on the stool, having trouble deciding if he should get up or not to leave Geralt to stew. There's a caught breath in the air, though Geralt is still breathing deep, fuming. He watches Jaskier slide from the stool, kneeling instead in front of Geralt on the other side of the tub, catching his eyes. "You still don't trust it, do you? That I won't die again." He asks it like it's a fact though, narrowing his eyes just slightly.

Geralt holds his breath, trying not to make a move that would give him away. Jaskier sees right through him anyhow.

"How long has it been since we talked about this last? Four months? You think if I'm kept safe back here while you're out slaying monsters, everything will be fine, and I'll be never the better. You don't want me out there helping you because you're afraid. Afraid that I'll die again. Tell me I'm wrong,” he challenges Geralt. Jaskier’s eyes are holding him captive and he wants so desperately to end this conversation and leave it where it lies, though he couldn't even do that with his lover's body, could he?

"The Path is not yours to walk. You don’t want-”

"No, but I want you." Geralt gives him an exasperated look. "And in order to keep having you, I would like to protect what it is I care most for in this entire world with the powers given to me.” Geralt's chest can't help but deflate.

"Jaskier I..." He grips the side of the tub till it scratches at his skin. "I can’t always protect you, can’t look out for you at all times, don't want to worry. I have mutations, potions, healing."

"As do I."

"What happens if you get really hurt? Something I can’t fix.” _Something that would be my fault_ , he doesn’t say. “What would you have me do?"

"Same as always. A healer, a sorceress," he raises his brows with a knowing smile, "a mage, a patch up job, just as we've done countless of times. I may not have as many scars as you, my dearest, but I have the tales of all the days I've lived after them." Geralt's stomach twisted. Jaskier shouldn't have gotten those scars, those marks and blemishes that he already has. He shouldn't have been bait, been captured, been thrown around and hurt like that. He should've stayed safe and out of the way for Geralt to handle all the monsters and the fights and the battles. Jaskier was skilled, yes, but Geralt didn't want him to have to be. He wanted Jaskier to live his carefree life, untouched, unscathed from the fires of the world.

"Hey, hey, hey..." Jaskier brought up the stool to be right against the side of the bath and took Geralt's face into his soft hands. Hands that should continue to stay soft and hold a lute and quills rather than a sword. Hands that should continue to smell of ink, herbs, and rosin and not heated metal, leather and blood. His thumbs smoothed against Geralt's temples, then pressed along under his eyes making him close them. He attempted to rub away the frustration and hurt from his face. "Love, I only wish to help," Jaskier said softly, gentling him.

Geralt furrows his brows, eyes closed. He sees Jaskier's fresh tombstone covered in the first frost. Sees the gnarled flesh of his leg from a werewolf's maw. Sees the bloody mess that was the arrow pierced in his shoulder from battle. Sees the swollen purpling neck of a djinn wish gone wrong.

"Do you remember what I said to you the first time you let me tag along?"

"I told you to stay back at the inn and you followed regardless, you stubborn fool." Geralt opened an eye to look up at his bard who was smiling fondly, though with an air of mischief tugging at his lips from the memory.

"Afterwards, my darling. You asked why I bothered following you and helping out."

"Because-" Jaskier raises a brow, a grin spreading across his face in answer. "Because you wanted to make sure I came back to you alive." Geralt sighed out and _fuck, Jaskier had him_.

"And nothing has changed." Jaskier's hands had moved to his hair and his jaw, stroking his skin and carding through his untamed locks. He leans forward and pecks a kiss to Geralt's nose. "My dearest heart." And Geralt's hands scoop around his waist and drags him into the bath, into the water, into his lap. Jaskier yelps out startled and clings to the larger man but it turns into a jovial laugh.

"Geralt-" Jaskier says smushed against his own lips now as he brings the other man close to him. He kisses his lover with purpose, holding him against his chest firmly, hands seated at his hips and lower back as the man’s legs are still lifted and hanging sideways at the rim of the bath. "Darling, my sweet, lover divine, you're absolutely ruining my clothes."

"You're wearing too many of them." Geralt grumbles back, though there's a smile tugging at his lips as he mouths at Jaskier's jaw, down his neck.

"I do agree." Jaskier breathes out, trying to hoist himself out of the tub only to be thwarted by Geralt's arms still around him. "My Witcher, please."

"My love." He can hear the way Jaskier's heartbeat picks up slightly at the pet name, at the way his own face is buried against the crook of his neck, feels his pulse just against his cheek thrumming warmly. "I... can't lose you again. I won't."

"I just need to take these off." Jaskier plays for light teasing, though he can smell the deep contemplation and the worry that's surely written on his face. He stops fighting the grasp, arms slinging around Geralt’s naked frame. "I know," he says instead after a moment. "You won’t. You never have. All you have to do is ask it of me."

What an idea...

Geralt leans back and stares up at Jaskier, golden gaze set to flames now. The lithe man on top of him stares back, seeming as though he's the one caught under a spell now, bright blue eyes entranced.

Geralt begins to whisper. "I wish..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!
> 
> Kudos and Comments are always so appreciated. Please let me know if you want to read something more in depth, I might find inspiration for it. It can be a gift.  
> This fic is coming to a close soon, just not sure when.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short memory on the road to Kaer Morhen for the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you by a lot of metaphors and descriptors of water.

It was getting considerably colder now that they were right upon the winter months. Autumn was shriveling up in the brush around them with each town they passed through heading Northeast towards Kaer Morhen. They were about a weeks' journey from the base of the mountains, the smaller and smaller villages that touched the valley becoming farther apart and more scarce, mostly farming towns. They were already going to be quite late to the keep, but the lingering warm days of fall were extending which meant the winter would be a long and harsh one. It would sink it's claws into the earth and wouldn't let go most likely til late spring.

Brisk cool air filled his lungs as he crawled out of their small tent. It sent a shocking freshness throughout his body pulling him from the warm sleepiness he had come out from. It was approaching dawn over the large expanse of lake just a steep rocky hill slope down before them. The crisp late autumnal breeze swept over the water and sent goosebumps standing on his arms and down his neck. He can still feel the warmth from the tent against his back before he climbs fully out of it and starts to rekindle the fire for their breakfast.

The heat trapped in the lake from the hot summer rises out in plumes of fog slowly stretching out across the dark but reflective waters. It would dissipate by mid-morning once the sun warmed up the surrounding landscape, but he can't help but idle his movements and watch the gentle rolling of the mist across the water's surface while it's here. He hears Jaskier roll over making himself comfortable again, still asleep from the soft sigh and deep even exhales of his breathing. He closes his eyes and takes a deep scenting breath through his nose, filling his lungs to the brink. The sharp scent of the juniper and pine trees bite inside his nose, the subtle cinnamon and rich wood smoke from the fire the night before, the robust sage and thyme mixed together from within the tent, and an earthy but light scent that he would think came off the water; it surrounded him enough to know it was the contentedness coming off of Jaskier, even while he slept.

It's not until he looks across the lake and sees the color changing leaves sunlit from between the valley that a memory creeps into his mind. The leaves had almost all gone, falling and blanketing the dirt with their many hues of yellows, reds, and oranges before they would turn brown and brittle. In his memory his eyes gaze upon a freshly dug grave at his feet. He re-remembers the hollow ache that shook in his entire body, like his skin were made of the membrane of eggshells, his chest empty of his organs but still remarkably heavy, his limbs only filled with compressed air, taut and tense underneath the smattering of scars.

It was beautiful during the season that Jaskier had died. His lover had pointed out each of his favorite things on the days he talked, though those were waning and had come further and further apart. They had taken to simply watching the scenery and to enjoy each other's company in relative silence. Jaskier would hum a melody halfway through a song he had written or had heard and let it die out the closer the sun got to the horizon line. Soon enough, he too was just another story in a song that whispered out at its finality. The poet who spoke so freely, so eloquently of the world and beings around him, had but only a few words mumbled to him from adoring lips at the end of things. Geralt had sung to Jaskier in his bed after his eyes closed for the last time, and when his voice went out, he hummed his favorite tunes instead, holding Jaskier's hand that was slowly losing its warmth even after the strength had gone.

The memories recede again like waves of consciousness. The thoughts drifting towards him, displacing the sand under his feet and wetting the shore only to fall back towards the larger mass. The remnants of the memories leave his toes chilled and the unsettling feeling of the grit of life between them. He feels cold wet lines down his cheeks grazing into his days old stubble. He runs his hands over his face with another deep sigh.

A shuffle and a small voice pull him from his thoughts fully.

"Geralt?" Jaskier's head pops out of the tent. It only takes him a moment to clear the sleep from his eyes to notice Geralt's pensive expression. The bard pulls on his boots before sliding out of the tent in his dark colored, elegant patterned, thick winter coat and padding over to sit next to Geralt. He slots his body in close with the witcher's like he's melding to his form, perfectly matching the dips and edges of each other's bodies. A hand creeps under Geralt's arm linking them together with Jaskier's hand continuing to thread their fingers in a soft but meaningful grasp. Jaskier rubs his cheek up against Geralt's broad shoulder the same time Geralt leans into the caressing touch so that their foreheads press.

"I'm fine," he says. And he's so relaxed to know he genuinely means it this time. The memory had greeted him but passed, only lingering in his mind to recall fondly.

"Tell me anyway?" Jaskier nudges his nose up against Geralt's and the feeling of affection sets his body on fire in the best ways, still to this day. The fifty years felt so empty that he was trying to make up for lost time during the last three seasons with Jaskier now solidly back in his life. He had already gotten used to seeking out the bard's hand in crowds and twining their legs under tables again, but this soft intimacy he craved when his lover was gone... Geralt can't get enough of it in his cup, he would first drown than hold back. Thankfully, Jaskier is more than willing to supply and give towards Geralt's insatiable needs freely. Jaskier had come back into his life like a tidal wave, beaching the shore and swallowing Geralt up whole as if raining over and encompassing him completely. It was only until he stopped struggling underneath that pressure that he gave to the currents and was swept off to let the water fill his body and sink deeper and deeper into the embrace of Jaskier's attentions.

"It was a memory." Geralt's fingers squeeze Jaskier's. They're dry like chalk but so warm, his pulse thrumming just beneath the skin of his palm. Jaskier stays quiet, now turned to gaze at the fog seeping and floating across the lake and into the trees. "It's the anniversary."

"Hmm," Jaskier hums in answer, it seems like it's not all there, perhaps he is also lost in his thoughts. The fog rolling on the water reaching in their minds as well. If he has the rest of his memories, does Jaskier remember what it felt like at the end?

"This is the first year I've not been alone on The Path since." Jaskier shuffles closer still, pressing against him so there is no other room between them as if reassuring his presence. Geralt continues, "I missed you so terribly." He noses along Jaskier's hair, his ear, to breathe in behind it at his neck where his scent cuts through everything else for a few moments when Geralt concentrates on it. He rumbles out, "I am glad you're with me again."

In the days in the beginning, he had no idea what the scent was that reeked from the bard at first. It was different when they had met, a fiery ember of oak and sea salt that fizzled on his tongue, he had known it to be arousal and intrigue. But the scent developed over time which only confused him more. The bite of the salt had simmered off and was replaced by clove and honey, that same fire and rich oak stayed-intensified. It wasn't until he caught Jaskier staring at him while he cleaned his swords one night in a small inn room that he figured out what it was. He was rightly completely and utterly baffled by it. It was like a kick to the chest by a horse.

Jaskier exuded love from his very scent. It's no wonder that he craves the smell of it at all times. He had been surrounded by it for years before they fell into bed with each other and then decades, a full lifetime, after. He's almost known nothing else from his bard. Jaskier seems to shiver at his small faint touches, his heart beat is strong and steady, if a touch faster than usual.

The man curled up into his side smiles up at him from his chin perched atop his shoulder. "Happy to be here." The nimbler fingers caress the back of Geralt's knuckles. "Do we have to leave soon?" The smile in his eyes hasn't left yet, a ghost of a smirk playing at his lips.

"We're making decent time to be at Kaer Morhen before the trail will be snowed over, though we should hurry our pace. It's going to be a harsh winter."

"Mmm, aye. It will be, but perchance not so harsh in the keep, in your bed."

"No, that doesn't sound so bad." Geralt's lips twitch up at the corners, a brow raised as he considers the other.

"If I swear to keep to your schedule for the rest of the journey, would you agree to coming back to bed with me? Just for a little while longer?" Jaskier took to stroking up and down his arm, pointed fingernails lightly scaling over his skin through his shirts to create a tingling sensation that grasps at the back of his skull. He already knew full well that Jaskier would get sidetracked and ask Geralt for more favors in the coming weeks to stay in a town an extra night, dally about in a market during the day so they don't make as much distance as he would like before the sun set, or just as he's doing now, staying just a bit later to wrap themselves up in each other where no one is around for miles. It's just them in their own world out here.

"The only swearing you do well with is insults at any person who dares offend you in town."

"Not true!" He makes the gestures of being hurt, all the petty offense just spoken of, but he's still smiling wide. "I can name at least ten other instances where I've sweared concerning your dutiful focused attention-"

Geralt tilts his head and smiles at Jaskier while his hand is covered over the bard's mouth. He arches his brow and Jaskier huffs a breath, rolling his eyes but when Geralt pulls his hand away he's grinning something mischievous. The slimmer man lifts his free hand and twines it into Geralt's hair bringing him into a kiss.

His lips are full and warm at Geralt's mouth. The witcher opens easily for the tongue that explores and ties with his own. It's a slow and easy kiss, a small pleasant thing that leaves them sighing. "Come back to bed with me." Jaskier's voice is soft, the deep reverberations from his vocal chords vibrate against his lips. Geralt can practically taste the sound. He wants to say no, they'll lose too much time when they should be traveling, they'll have all winter to be in each other's space, but... He doesn't.

Jaskier stands, his hand still firmly in Geralt's, and he walks the few paces back to the tent, Geralt following like a love-sick pup. He realized a long time ago that he's exactly that when it involves Jaskier. Geralt lies back down on the bedrolls and Jaskier is already making himself a home in his arms before they kiss again and waste a few more early morning hours to just be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments extremely welcome. I still get notifications about everyone who does and it makes me happy to see even while I'm not updating as often.


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